


a measure of stars

by petitepeach



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Banter, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Lucas is So Done, M/M, Misunderstandings, Purple Prose, Romance, basically the gang's all here - Freeform, but he is also So Fragile, but more one-sided enemies, even the dreaded charles, gratuitous stargazing, you know how this one goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 97,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitepeach/pseuds/petitepeach
Summary: Lucas glances up, even knowing the stars won’t be there. He squints into the pale blue, picturing the endless constellations of light. He frowns, says, “I don’t know,” when really, he thinks,I wish I was born a star. I wish I could dip my hand into the empty sea. I wish I could fall in love with another star and make a new constellation every night.“Marriage isn’t meant for me, anyway.”Imane tilts her head back as well, sighing. “Nor I.”Lucas scoffs. “You say that, but I just know, one day a man is going to fall madly in love with you, and you’ll find him exceedingly tolerable, and then you’ll be in trouble.”or, a pride and prejudice au
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant, Sofiane Alaoui/Imane Bakhellal
Comments: 249
Kudos: 422





	1. a truth universally acknowledged

**Author's Note:**

> folks, we're finally here, after _months_ of me talking about this fic!!
> 
> part of that delay is from me being very, very nervous to try my hand at such a well-loved story, but i've wanted to write this for a long time, since i started posting in this fandom, and it feels pretty good to finally be sharing it 🧡
> 
> since we're in france here, the historical context has changed quite a bit, so i've moved the events of this fic to about a decade after they supposedly happen in the book, which takes us to post-revolution france. and that being said, any and all historical and geographical inaccuracies are absolutely my bad. if anyone has any notes or corrections i would love to hear them!!
> 
> the lovely ez (ezbozart) drew the most incredible [portrait](https://ezbozart.tumblr.com/post/617185692658941952/lucas-scoffs-you-say-that-but-i-just-know-one) of lucas in this story 
> 
> there is now MORE incredible art by darling [barb](https://briallenko.tumblr.com/post/621541716145700864/inspired-by-elu-story-called-a-measure-of-stars-by) (briallenko) and [mabubblebulle](https://mabubblebulle.tumblr.com/post/621749221080580096/fanart-for-the-beautiful-fic-a-measure-of-stars-by) on tumblr as well as the most stunning [gifset](https://nooraevas.tumblr.com/post/622315618487664640/a-measure-of-stars-by-lepetitepeach-love-made-a) by valentina!! 🌟
> 
> now translated into [portuguese](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27369661/chapters/66881710) by the lovely and sweet stela 🧡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so, we begin, with a secret, an arrival, and a ball (or two)

There are things we know, truths as steadfast as oak and as renowned as poetry. These truths are not learned so much as accepted—one is born knowing them, and becomes more familiar with them as the years wear on, just as the oak tree sprouts new leaves and lets its roots grow wild.

You can know, deep in the bones and blood that make you human, that hard hearts seek to be softened like birds seek the southern winds, but you won’t really know it, not until dawn is approaching and you find yourself clutching at the edges of a coat that isn’t yours, counting down the footsteps of an approaching silhouette.

You know, and then you see. Such is the same with every universal truth:

There is nothing in this world as constant as a star, a planet, a moon—dizzying motion in a fixed view, the watchful god-eyes turned towards the follies of earth.

An empty house cannot remain an empty house for long; it must be filled with polished furniture and rough smiles, must play host to humans and stories alike.

Nature experiences life through cycles, and so too does everything else. You are here, in the time of a stripped-bare winter, but your spring will come, as it always does. Wait until there are butterflies dancing in your branches.

But out of all these truths, as profound as they are utterly simple, there is one in particular that sits fixedly in the mind of folk from Nice to Honfleur, makes itself known in whispers in the corners of ballrooms, muffled behind gloved hands during tea. It goes like this:

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of—

Well.

He must be in want of something.

________

The sun breaks over the trees just as Lucas finishes the final line.

A splash of pale sunlight washes over his page, long shadows cast onto his lap from his fingers. He closes his eyes to it, to the gentle touch on his forehead, the tip of his nose, his eyelids.

He’s been away from the house for a while, left before the stars had completely set, when the sky was a spilt bucket of blue, purple and orange. The only person awake was Claude, communing with the chickens, and Lucas had easily slipped by him, barely clothed and his hair a mess, a book and a thick slice of stale bread tucked under his arm.

He walked through the dawn like a spirit, silent feet over the dewy floor, eyes fixed skywards to watch the fading stars. The field he favours is on the edge of a short cliff, populated by a beautiful, old willow, overlooking a still, shallow river. He sat at the base of the willow and watched the theatre of light play out in the sky, until it became just bright enough for him to read without squinting.

He wishes he had a telescope he could bring to this field, so he could stay out all night and watch the stars, only returning home at dawn to dream of distant planets and moons, then wake with the sunset to do it all over again. It is a schedule more fit to the willow tree against his spine than a human being with family and responsibilities. More suited to the wild, old things Lucas used to go hunting for as a child; heroes of fairy tales and creatures of fables.

Lucas he closes his book in his lap, dragging a fingertip gently down it worn cover. A first edition of _The Starry Messenger_ from his parents’ estate, losing its worth through use and time and now a relic to the new, sensational texts being published every year in the hum of progress that radiates from Paris, Copenhagen, Edinburgh. It’s the same hum that beckons Lucas forward, outward, even with the words of his aunt constantly ringing in his ears.

_University? In Paris? And where would you get the money for such a venture? What of your cousins? What of this house? Are you ready to abandon all of this?_

Lucas had known, for a while, that he was the one set to inherit the Banet house. There had been one awkward conversation about marriage when he was a teenager, which was met with immediate disgust from both him and his cousins. But he hadn’t, until that moment, realized exactly what it meant, to have the house. It meant he couldn’t leave. Not unless he suddenly came into an exorbitant amount of money.

_There are roles we all have to play, Lucas_ , Manon told him, coming into his room to find him after he had slammed the door and sat himself moodily at the windowsill. _Sometimes, we have no choice in what we are given_.

If everyone in the world is truly only made of what they are given, then Lucas Lallemant is a creature of ink and paper and foul temper, with a strange family, a rundown country house, and a head full of stars.

_But_ , he thinks as he stands from the ground, balancing one hand against the willow’s bark and brushing grass and dirt away from his pants with the other, _maybe_ _there are worse ways to be_.

The sun is high when he catches sight of it again.

A sturdy stone house in the middle of the country. Banked by a stream and a pair of ancient, gnarled wych elms. Always with a lit fireplace, even in the summer, always encased in a symphony of chickens, piano playing, and the general hysteria that comes from a family such as theirs, each member a forest of their own stubborn intent.

Beaufort. Home of the Banet family for generations, and now, the inheritance of a Lallemant.

This was the place Lucas was taken to as a boy, scared and alone, holding only onto his beloved books, his stuffed rabbit, and his name; a key to grant him access into another family, one far larger than his, and far louder, but just as loving.

It was Manon who took his hand that first night, leading him upstairs to his room.

_Don't worry Lucas_ , she said, ever the big sister, strong and soft in the same breath. _We’re your family now, and we look after each other_.

So was the start of Lucas becoming a Banet. So was the beginning of his story within that house: discovering a hidden door in the kitchen; searching for crevices and corners to fold himself into with _The Starry Messenger;_ perfecting a route from his bedroom window onto the roof so he could watch the stars when he couldn’t sleep, when the memory of his parents’ voices was a wound too fresh not to feel.

To Lucas, it became a magical place, somewhere he couldn’t imagine leaving, not until school finished, and Arthur and Basile began talking about _Paris_ in the same way Lucas would talk about the empty roof at night, and another magical place took up residence in his mind.

But that place is now as out of reach as the stars themselves. Lucas’ feet are rooted to the earth, to this house waiting for him cheerfully from over the stream, windows brought alight by the sun like mirthful eyes watching his steady approach.

His plan is to slip through the back door once again, and to make it upstairs unnoticed so he can wash, change and come downstairs as though he just woke up, as though he never left in the waning twilight for his favourite field.

But of course, the first thing Lucas sees when he comes to the top of the small, sloping hill, is the girls, gathered by the base of the first elm and peering out in different directions.

As though they’re looking for him.

Imane spots him first. Her mouth twists into a wry smile, and she raise her arm, pointing towards him.

Lucas can’t hear what she says, but three other heads swivel in his direction and, upon seeing him, burst into excited greetings.

“There you are! Did you leave before dawn again?”

“Lucas, you will never _believe_ what’s happened!”

They meet him halfway. Alexia and Emma make it first, shrieking with laughter as they barrel into him, causing Lucas to nearly go careening into the ground. Manon and Imane follow more slowly, their arms linked and their laughter muffled into their hands.

“What the hell is going on?” Lucas sputters out in between peals of laughter, gripping onto Emma and Alexia to try and stay upright.

“Oh, Lucas,” Alexia detaches herself from him to twirl on the spot, arms raised. There’s a yellow flower tucked into her hair, dancing as she dances, bobbing side to side with every movement. Her voice rises up an octave, eerily similar to Mrs. Banet’s. “It’s _such_ news!”

“ _Such_ news.” Emma echoes solemnly.

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Is it the cow from down the road again? Has it escaped? Gone on a rampage?”

“Someone,” Alexia says, lowering her voice dramatically, “is moving into Champrés Hall.”

Lucas gasps, his hands rising to his cheeks. “No!”

“I _know._ ” Alexia grips onto his arm. “And it gets better. Mama says he’s young and deliriously rich. Five thousand a _year_ rich.”

Lucas blinks in surprise. Someone that wealthy would certainly be news in Allier, which was too far south from Paris to be exciting, and not far enough south to be desirable. “How does she know that?”

Emma huffs, impatiently brushing away the thick, slippery strands of hair that keep falling out of her messy braid. “Honestly. How would she not know that?”

It’s a fair point. Mrs. Banet makes it her business to know.

“Also,” Emma says to Alexia, flicking her on the forehead, “you’ve left out the best part.”

Alexia bats her hand away, rolling her eyes. “Apparently, he’s handsome.”

Lucas is unimpressed. “Handsome as in five thousand a year handsome?” He thinks anyone new, anyone who was moving into a house as grand as Champrés Hall, would be the most desirable man in the region, whether he was deemed handsome or not.

For years, Champrés Hall sat, sprawling and silent, on a hill just beyond the flower fields. Its rumours were extensive, curious eyes telling tales of a library brimming with books, a ballroom as lavishly designed as a king’s, and a wide courtyard at its back, surrounded by a garden. It was the courtyard that always stuck with Lucas. He had visions of standing at its centre and craning his neck back, far enough to see into the depths of an inky black ocean.

With five thousand a year, maybe this wealthy, handsome man would be in possession of a telescope. Maybe Lucas would have to make his acquaintance.

A spark of curiosity must bloom somewhere in his cheeks, or maybe in the corner of his eye, because Alexia sees it, and latches onto it, grinning at him.

“We’ve even made you curious, haven’t we, Lucas?”

Lucas frowns at her. “No.” He says sharply, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Just glad it’s not the cow.” He lowers his chin so he doesn’t have to meet Alexia’s gaze.

There’s no real reason for it. She might suspect, but she doesn’t know. Even though she has a way of staring through someone to their soul, she can’t really know. The only one who does is Imane. She was the one who, while walking from the Bakhellal house to the Banet’s one cloudy afternoon, stumbled across Lucas kissing François Roberge behind one of the elms.

Their eyes had met, for one brief, terrifying moment, and then Imane had slipped away silently, throwing Lucas a smile over her shoulder before she disappeared into the house. She never asked Lucas about it, and he never offered an explanation, but from that moment on there was a silent understanding between them. Lucas never saw François again, but the secret remained long after he left, and with it, a close friendship with Imane that has been building for years, ever since Imane had burst into the house carrying a stack of paper and wearing a small magnifying glass on a string around her neck.

She found Lucas in the garden.

_You’re Lucas, right? Manon said you like science as well._

The Bakhellals moved from Paris to the country, which made them sources of endless speculation for people like Lucas’ aunt. They were rumoured to be decently wealthy, the father a doctor or something equally high-standing, with a son who supposedly was serving overseas in the military. A naval captain, some whispers claimed. The most talked-about member of the family, however, was Imane: a pretty girl with a predilection for the sciences who was allowed to run around outside all day long.

She and Lucas were kindred spirits, in a way: lofty in their dreams and stubborn in their ideas; sharp with the world and soft with their loved ones; often deemed by disapproving onlookers as _too headstrong for a suitable marriage._

Imane appears at his side now, laughing alongside Emma and Alexia, the sunlight catching on her high cheekbones, turning her eyes into liquid amber, and for one arresting moment, Lucas wishes that he loved her differently than he does. He wishes he could marry her, and have it mean something over than a convenient partnership.

“I think novelty will make any man handsome,” Imane is saying, and Manon cackles, shaking her head. “It’s true! What is new will always be enticing. It’s a law of human behaviour.”

Emma pouts at her. “You’re probably right, but don’t ruin this for us! Can we not enjoy a bit of excitement here?” She groans, dropping her head onto Lucas’ shoulder. “I’m sick of looking at the same men. No offence, Lucas.”

Lucas shrugs, gently jostling her head. “None taken.”

Alexia sighs dreamily, twirling in another slow circle. Her dress fans out around her body like wings. “I hope he comes to the ball on Saturday. We haven’t been able to dance properly in ages.”

Manon steps towards her, gripping onto her hand and spinning her faster. Alexia giggles, teetering on her toes, her free arm flailing out to the side.

“Of course he will,” Manon says earnestly, catching Alexia’s other hand and tugging her into a lazy country dance, loose-limbed and simple like they’re children again, dancing between slats of sunlight pouring into the kitchen while herbs dry over the hearth and fresh bread cools on the table.

Emma leaves Lucas Lucas to join them, throwing her arms around the other two girls, cursing when she nearly slips on a hidden patch of mud.

Looking at them, Lucas feels a gentle, pleasant ache beneath his ribs.

Love, as elusive and wild as it is, can sometimes be nothing more than a sensation beneath the skin—fond memory meeting with a perfectly-painted present. Lucas tries to capture the sight in his mind’s eye, because it feels important. It feels as though he’s inside of a moment he’ll want to remember for a long time.

Imane links her arm through his, leaning her chin onto his shoulder.

“I love them so,” she says, affection as sweet as honeysuckle flowering her words.

Lucas tilts his head against hers, letting out a sigh. “Me too.”

“Did you go to the field again?”

“I did.”

“With who?”

Lucas holds up _The Starry Messenger_ so she can see it.

“Ah,” Imane taps a finger against the cover. “Your faithful husband.”

Lucas snorts inelegantly. “Well maybe being married to a book wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Hm. What about being married to the stars?”

Lucas glances up, even knowing they won’t be there. He squints into the pale blue, picturing the endless constellations of light. He frowns, says, “I don’t know,” when really, he thinks, _I wish I was born a star. I wish I could dip my hand into the empty sea. I wish I could fall in love with another star and make a new constellation every night._ “Marriage isn’t meant for me, anyway.”

Imane tilts her head back as well, sighing. “Nor I.”

Lucas scoffs. “You say that, but I just know, one day a man is going to fall madly in love with you, and you’ll find him exceedingly tolerable, and then you’ll be in trouble.”

He yelps when Imane punches him in the side, clutching at his ribs and lunging towards her, but she dodges him, dancing away with a grin.

“I think it’s yourself you should be concerned about,” she calls over her shoulder, “what are you going to do when someone tries to take the stars out of the sky for you?”

She joins in with Emma, Manon, and Alexia, melting into their dance seamlessly, and Lucas is left standing there on the muddy grass, his book heavy in his hand and the summer breeze teasing at the open lapels of his jacket.

For once, he can’t think of a single thing to say.

It’s as unlikely as anything he ever heard. It’s a joke, a rebuttal covering Imane’s own embarrassment. It’s everything except a possibility, but Lucas will never admit to a soul, especially Imane, how his entire body goes numb with pleasure at the thought. _What are you going to do…_

(It’s a secret of a soft heart.)

A love like that. Passionate and selfless and unyielding. Meant for people like Lucas only as something to marvel at, like priceless artwork or impossible science. He can only guess at its mysteries.

A love like that. He wonders if it would feel like drowning or like being free.

Imane walks home and the rest of them head inside, leaving their muddied shoes in the kitchen and trailing damp footprints down the wood floorboards in the hallway. Their noise summons Mrs. Banet, who comes screaming out of the drawing room, her dark hair falling out of its neat bun, her handkerchief waving through the air like a flag.

“Lucas, there you are!” She cries. “Where have you been?” Her eyes trail down his open jacket to his feet, then to Emma, Alexia, and finally to Manon. Her mouth pinches at the corners. “Well, never mind where you’ve been. There’s been such news while you were out _gallivanting_.”

“I heard,” Lucas says dryly, stepping towards her and planting a wet kiss on her cheek, laughing when she bats him away impatiently. “There’s rumour of a rich man.”

“A very rich man,” she says seriously, turning on her heels and disappearing back into the drawing room. “He’s going to save us all.”

They follow her, filing into the room and throwing themselves down like stones skipped into a stream: Manon on the sofa, smoothing her skirts down and folding her hands over her lap; Alexia to the piano bench, shaking her hands out and running an experimental scale; Emma to the card table, next to her father, her face falling into her cupped palms; Lucas onto the floor, kicking his legs out and grinning when his aunt shoots him a weary look.

“How’s he going to do that?” Lucas asks, leaning back onto his hands. “Is he going to let us move in with him?”

“He just might,” Mrs. Banet says with a sniff, “once he falls madly in love with one of the girls and marries her.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Lucas draws out, grinning at Manon. “I see.”

It’s well-known in their corner of Allier, how his aunt has done nothing but try and procure advantageous marriages for her daughters ever since they became old enough to go out into society. This young man, whoever he is, must feel like the very hand of God reaching down to her, telling her that this is the moment she’s been waiting for. This is the ultimate match for her to make.

Mr. Banet, white-haired and kind-faced, is staring at his wife over half-moon glasses, his fingers steepled under his chin like he’s a child who’s been told off one too many times in church.

“Is that the plan, then?”

Mrs. Banet plants her hands on her hips. “I always knew my beautiful girls would make me proud.” She shoots each daughter a look in turn. “By presenting themselves accordingly to new acquaintances and not playing in the dirt like children.”

Alexia smothers a laugh into one hand, the other resting lightly on the piano keys.

Mrs. Banet takes a deep breath, her handkerchief falling to her side, her shoulders rolling back. “Listen, all of you,” she says, “when we finally meet Mr. Alaoui—”

Lucas mouths the name to Emma, raising his eyebrows. She nods, clutching her hands over her heart and swaying in her chair.

“Emma, please. _When_ we finally meet Mr. Alaoui, I will expect each and every one of you to make the best impression possible. He is going to be _very_ important for our family.”

“We’re meeting him, then?” Lucas asks. “When’s that going to happen?”

“As soon as Mr. Banet calls on him.”

Lucas turns a smirk onto his uncle. There are few things Mr. Banet likes less than making social calls, particularly with people he’s not acquainted with. “Which I’m sure he’s already done.”

Mr. Banet slowly, carefully, removes his glasses, folding the arms down and placing them onto the table top. He sits back in his chair, resting his hands on his stomach.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” he says lightly. Lucas bursts into laughter as Mrs. Banet flings her arms out, her handkerchief fluttering to the floor, landing next to Lucas’ socked feet.

“You did?” She cries. She looks moments away from fainting. “Mr. Banet!”

“Our paths crossed purely by chance. He’s a pleasant fellow.”

“Papa.” Emma’s hand slaps down on the table. “You have to tell me. Is he handsome?”

Mr. Banet waves a hand out. “I’m sure many people would think so.”

Alexia is kneeling onto the piano bench, staring at her father with wide, gleeful eyes. “Is he coming to the ball on Saturday?”

There’s a beat of silence, where every head is turned towards Mr. Banet, every one of them tense with curiosity, with anticipation—even Lucas. Exhilaration, much like an idea, a story, an equation, can be far too easy to be caught up in. It can carry you away like the tide, without you even being aware of it as it happens.

And so too Lucas, of the starry head and soft heart in a hard shell, watches his uncle’s expression carefully as he weighs the truth on his tongue, thinking, just as everyone else in the room is, that they were teetering on the edge of a change. Turn the page and there’s a new chapter. Enter the interloper. Exit the everyday.

Mr. Banet smiles. “I believe he is.”

The room erupts into delighted cries. Alexia leaps up from the piano bench to lean over the back of the sofa, immediately begging for Manon to lend her some of her lace. Emma dives down to the floor, onto Lucas, while Mrs. Banet swoops down to press a kiss to her husband’s cheek.

“I knew I married you for a reason,” she tells him, and he laughs.

Saturday, when it comes, is bright and warm—a summer day meant for poets, for painters and lovers, still and clear and perfect.

The Banet household is deceptively calm during the afternoon: Alexia practices on the drawing room piano, Manon grinds herbs in the kitchen, Emma naps in her room, and Lucas sits at his uncle’s desk, pouring over the map of constellations he’s been attempting to put together for years. But as dusk approaches, the house takes on a nervous frenzy of energy, and before Lucas knows it, he’s being forced up from the desk by his aunt, groaning as she demands he wash up and get dressed so they won’t be late to the ball.

“Wear the blue, Lucas,” Mrs. Banet tells him as he slowly climbs the stairs. “It brings out your eyes.”

“Who am I trying to impress,” Lucas mutters under his breath, passing by Manon’s open bedroom door. He glances inside to see Manon finishing Alexia’s hair at her vanity, both of them grinning into the mirror. Emma is laying flat on Manon’s bed, kicking her heels against the rug.

“Look nice for yourself, Lucas,” Emma says without looking away from the ceiling. “Be your own five thousand a year.”

“Emma, we both know I’m worth at least ten thousand a year.”

She snorts, rolling onto her stomach. “Sure. And I’m worth twenty.”

“Thirty.” Alexia chimes in from the vanity.

Manon laughs, tugging on a stray curl at the base of Alexia’s neck. “A marriage should never be made entirely on money.”

“But they always are.” Emma slides down from the bed, walking over to the vanity and planting her hands on the surface, meeting Manon’s gaze in the mirror. “And please, you’ll be the one with wealthy men throwing themselves at your feet all night.”

“That’s not true,” Manon argues, curling the lock of Alexia’s hair around her finger and releasing it, watching it spring into place.

“It’s all Mama ever wants to talk about. Oh, my darling Manon is _so_ beautiful! She is going to catch _quite_ a husband!”

Alexia and Lucas roar with laughter. Manon shakes her head, her cheeks pinking.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but it’s said affectionately, as warm as the candle flickering on her windowsill, and Emma blows her a kiss in the mirror.

By the time they leave, on foot because the Cazas house is close and they’re down a horse due to injury, the sun is low, kissing the horizon with hues of pink, yellow, and orange. It catches on the leaves on the elms, on the ends of Emma’s hair, on the tip of Mr. Banet’s nose.

Imane meets them partway, her mother staying at home to care for her father, still healing from an accident, but she’s smiling when she greets them, kissing their cheeks and linking her arm through Manon’s as they walk.

Mrs. Banet laments on how uncivilized it is to show up on foot, worries herself over what Mr. Alaoui will think when he sees these quaint country folk _walking_ to a social gathering. Lucas points out that they will hardly be the only people walking, and that if Mr. Alaoui is the kind of man who doesn’t think the ground deserves to touch his feet, then she’ll have a very hard time trying to get her daughters to dance with him.

“ _Really_ Lucas,” Mrs. Banet sighs.

The Cazas home is brightly lit and inviting when they arrive. The doors are opened widely, with music pouring out onto the steps as crowds of people pour inside, excited conversation being exchanged as Mr. Cazas greets everyone passing by, smiling generously and laughing warmly.

“The Banets!” He calls out, extending his arms as though he’s about to invite them all into a hug. “How glad I am to see you! Come in, come in!” He shakes Lucas’ hand firmly. “And Lucas! Yann is inside. He might already be dancing by now.”

The Cazas home is an old, grand farmhouse, its ballroom characterized by dark chestnut floors and ceilings, heirloom chandeliers, and a deep stone fireplace at the far end of the room. Lucas enters in the middle of a dance, to a sea of movement, twirling and shifting bodies coming together as one, then breaking apart back into a ripple of waves, flowing around one another in intricate paths.

Yann is, in fact, already dancing, partnered with a pretty, red-headed girl Lucas doesn’t recognize. He’s grinning and sweating a bit at the brow, and Lucas can see the gazes of many women in the room continuously drifting toward him. It’s been that way since they were boys: Yann, handsome and charismatic and as kind as his father, drawing every eye in a room whether he tries to or not.

Emma is at Lucas’ elbow. “Is Yann there? Good. He promised me a dance tonight.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow at her. “Did he?” He remembers back when Emma and Yann used to hide shy smiles around each other, when Yann would walk home with him from school just to see her. Lucas never learned exactly what happened between them, to make the smiles stop, but Yann’s official answer was always, _We grew up, Lucas. We changed._

Emma flicks Lucas behind the ear. “Yes, he did. And who’s promised you a dance, Lucas? No one.”

Lucas fights the urge to stick his tongue out at her like they really are children once again, but he can feel the hawk-like eye of his aunt on his back, and he just smiles pleasantly.

“If you wanted to dance with me, Emma, you just had to ask. I know I’m widely considered to be the most graceful in the family.”

Emma does stick her tongue out at him.

The dance ends to joyous applause, and Yann bounds over to them, knocking gracelessly into Emma while he pulls Lucas into a hug.

“How are you, then?” He grips onto Lucas’ shoulders, grinning down at him. “Nice jacket.”

“Thank you,” Lucas says demurely. “Nice dancing.”

“Thanks. Emma, I think we’re having a dance next?” Yann holds his arm out, crooked at the elbow, and Emma slides her hand into it, smirking at Lucas as Yann leads her away, returning to the dance floor as quickly as he left it.

Lucas watches them go, but then there’s a hand at his arm, thin fingers wrapping around his bicep and tugging. Imane’s teasing face dips into view.

“Well? We can’t let everyone here go around thinking Emma and Yann are better dancers than we are.”

Lucas grins, and lets himself be lead onto the floor.

The thing is, Lucas really does love to dance. He loves the freedom of it, the chance to move and to laugh and to act as ridiculous as you like, as long as it’s set to music, as long as you return to the rhythm pulsing through the entire room, from the stomp of foot to floor to palms clapping together. Alexia taught Lucas to dance when he had only been at the Banet house for a few months, horrified when she learned that Lucas has never learned how.

_You’ve never danced? Oh no. You have to dance, Lucas, come on._

For an entire afternoon they danced in the Banet’s garden, then in the evening Alexia had enlisted Manon to be Lucas’ partner while she played clumsy keys at the piano. When Lucas thinks about that day, he thinks about himself tripping on the carpet and landing hard, face first. He thinks about Alexia and Manon giggling as he got back to his feet. He thinks about Manon accidentally crashing into the table, and he thinks about feeling completely and utterly himself. At ease and carefree. That’s what he's always associated dancing with.

No one else really knows how he feels about it. The girls will complain about how Lucas is too good a dancer to spend half of the ball standing at the side, drinking wine and talking to Yann. Emma will mutter about how Lucas is good at dancing without even trying, and Manon will tease him for being too shy to ask anyone besides his cousins to dance.

They see him, but they don’t see him when he dances, not really. Lucas always thought it had to be written clearly across his face, how desperately he loved it, how there were nights when he wishes he could do nothing but dance—under the stars, maybe, with a certain type of partner, maybe.

(Another secret of the soft heart.)

So, when he and Imane take to the floor, it’s with a rush of exhilaration that he turns on his heel to begin, gliding sideways to circle around Yann then return to Imane, their hands touching for a moment before they part again, falling into another set of steps.

The dance is a crowd favourite, one that’s joyous and celebratory, where their feet move too quickly for their bodies, the dance never slowing its relentless pace. It’s over far too soon, everyone groaning in disappointment when the band finishes, applauding and collapsing into one another, breathless and giddy.

Emma and Imane disappear to go find Alexia and Manon, and Yann steers Lucas towards a table off to the side, on the hunt for a glass of red wine.

“So how have you been?” Yann asks, collapsing into a chair. “Really?”

Lucas falls into the one across from him, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug. “Fine,” he says. “The same.”

Yann’s eyes are glittering and dark, staring Lucas down in a way that is perfected only by childhood friends, only by those who know you by heart. “The same?”

Lucas laughs, waving a hand out. “What do you expect me to say? Nothing happens to me, you know that. I read, I go walking, I work on my maps. I practice making angry faces in the mirror.”

“Have you heard anything from Arthur? Basile?”

Lucas sighs, brushing his fingers across his cheek, a stray lash falling away with the motion. “I have.” The letters from Arthur and Basile chronicling their adventures in Paris are most of what he has to look forward to during the week, simultaneously inspiring in their tales of intense academic discourse and brilliant minds combating over whiskey and beer, and also utterly heartbreaking in the knowledge that he’ll never get to experience it for himself. “Arthur has been telling me about this lecture he attended with a man named Laplace. He spoke about planetary inequalities, which is fascinating, actually—”

Yann is gazing at Lucas warmly as he rambles, leaning forward in his chair because that’s just how he is. He genuinely wants to listen, wants to understand, and Lucas is sure he must possess more patience in his right ear than Lucas does in his entire body. But as he begins to delve into a rudimentary explanation of planetary inequalities, there’s something that happens behind him, something that makes Yann blink, his gaze darting over Lucas’ shoulder. Lucas turns to follow it, and it feels as though the entire room goes silent when he finally sees them.

It’s not completely silent, not really, but the conversation dies to whispers, and the music hits a sour note and wanes, as every head turns towards the new arrivals standing in the entrance to the Cazas ballroom.

“The interloper,” Lucas murmurs as he and Yann slowly rise from their chairs, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the infamous strangers.

“That’s him on the right,” Yann says lowly, gesturing to the shorter man with dark hair practically bouncing on his toes as Mr. Cazas surges forward to welcome them. He’s handsome, but he also looks kind, his eyes warm as they drift around the room, his smile wide and genuine.

Lucas’ gaze drifts past him. “And the others?”

“The woman is Lucille du Vionnet. She’s a twice-removed cousin of Alaoui’s or something of the sort, I don’t really know. The one in the middle is Demaury.”

Lucas takes them in: the woman with the elegant dress and delicate features, her face deceptively soft for the sharpness of her eyes roaming across the room; the second man, the taller one, slim but broad-shouldered, wearing a black jacket and a displeased expression.

“Oh God,” Lucas whispers. “That Demaury looks like he’s in pain. He looks miserable.”

“Well,” Yann says, leaning towards Lucas, “he may look miserable, but he’s certainly not poor.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Tell me.”

“Ten thousand a _year_.” Yann draws out gleefully, sounding exactly like Mrs. Banet’s friends who gossip outside of the bakery on Sunday afternoons. “He practically owns half of Loire-et-Cher.”

“What, the miserable half?” Lucas asks, and Yann snorts so loudly he has to cough to mask it.

The sound draws the attention of the three statues of grace passing by them, making a slow progression towards the back of the hall. The woman, Lucille, only spares them the briefest of glances, probably deeming them unworthy of her attention, Lucas would guess. Alaoui’s eyes meet his and he smiles, bowing his head. Lucas returns the gesture, and when his eyes rise again they land on Demaury’s, a piercing pale blue under the low light of the chandeliers.

Their eyes hold, only for a moment, but it’s long enough for Lucas to look at him properly, to see his high cheekbones, his curved, aristocratic nose, his lips…

Then he turns away and Lucas feels his cheeks burn with heat, his eyes dropping to the floor when he realizes that he’s staring, in the way everyone else is staring but also entirely differently, not just because _they are new_ , but because _he is so beautiful_.

Lucas is a star. Falling skywards from the surface of the earth and burning, burning.

_Oh no_ , Lucas thinks. _Don’t do this to me_. He’s not sure who his thoughts are addressed to—himself, maybe, his own treacherous heart thumping away, or to the universe itself, great joker and grandmother of fated mistake. All of it at once.

The three greek gods make it to the fireplace, a place as good as any to stand and be admired, and the music resumes, the dancers quickly reconfiguring on the floor, taking their partners hands once again and perhaps, stepping with a little more lightness of foot, turning their smile a touch sweeter.

It makes a good image for the new arrivals.

Mr. Cazas spots his son over the dancers, and waves him over with one hand.

“Come on.” Yann guides Lucas before him, a hand to his back that sends him stumbling forward, banking on the edge of the dancers to make it to Yann’s father at the same time Mrs. Banet arrives with Mr. Banet, Manon, and Imane.

“Lucas!” She cries, as though it's the first time she’s seen him in years. “There you are!” She gives a tinkling laugh. “We were wondering if you had disappeared outside like you usually do.”

“Merely recovering from a dance,” Lucas says lightly, and turns to face the three strangers as Mr. Cazas begins introductions. Up close, Demaury is even taller than he realized, tall enough that Lucas has to look up at him, which immediately sets him on edge. If he wasn’t already.

“Mr. Alaoui,” Mr. Cazas says, gesturing to every one in turn, “this is my son, Yann, Mr. and Mr. Banet, their eldest daughter Manon and their nephew, Lucas Lallemant.” Finally, he lands on Imane. “And this is Imane Bakhellal. Her father is a dear acquaintance of mine, but his health regretfully keeps him at home.”

“I have two other daughters,” Mrs. Banet interjects, pointing towards the dancing couples, “but they’re already dancing.”

“And may I introduce,” Mr. Cazas continues, “Mr. Demaury of the Chateau d’Arbrenne at Loire-et-Cher.”

A series of bows are exchanged. Lucas doesn’t miss the way Alaoui’s eyes linger on Imane. Nor does he miss the way Demaury notices it too, his gaze cutting rapidly between the pair of them. He catches Lucas staring and frowns, and before he can stop himself, Lucas frowns back at him.

“Delighted to make you acquaintance.” Alaoui says, sounding so genuinely delighted that it makes Lucas smile. He breaks with Demaury’s gaze to return the sentiment, but Alaoui’s eyes are still fixed on Imane, who seems to be preoccupying herself with the contents of her wine glass.

_Well_ , Lucas thinks. _That’s interesting_.

Demaury becomes a distraction at his peripheries as the night goes on. Lucas is always aware of him, can practically feel his presence based on how the room shifts around him whenever he moves. Everyone seems a little in awe of Demaury, and of Lucille, who do nothing but talk to each other and to Alaoui, then pout in front of the fireplace like prized birds. Lucas finds it annoying, and boring, and his initial attraction to Demaury, as staggering as it was, begins to sour into something else the more he watches him.

Alaoui proves himself to be a different sort altogether. He’s unfailingly pleasant, attentive in conversation and generous with his compliments. Lucas manages to corner him and Imane together on the edge of the dance floor, just so he can once again see how Imane avoids looking directly at Alaoui, in the same way many people often avoid looking straight at the sun. It’s endlessly entertaining.

“And the house?” He asks when they hit a lull in conversation, when it seems Alaoui has run out of sincere praises for both the ballroom and for Imane. “I hear there’s a wonderful terrace.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Alaoui says. “You really ought to come sometime to enjoy it. Both of you.”

“Well, then.” Lucas glances over at Imane, whose eyes tighten at the corners. He grins, biting down on the edge of his wine glass. “We must.”  
A new song begins, an easy, lighthearted tune, and Alaoui’s eyes widen in recognition.

“I do like this one,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, and Lucas nudges Imane’s hip with his own.

When Imane ignores him, he sighs, lowering his glass.

“If you’re looking for a partner,” he tells Alaoui, “then Imane is an excellent dancer.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Alaoui extends a hand to her, his expression softening. “May I?”

There’s a beat of silence where Lucas genuinely wonders if Imane will turn him down, for what Lucas would have no idea, pride maybe, but then she gives Alaoui a small smile, and she rests her hand on top of his.

Lucas lets out a long breath, leaning back against the wooden pillar behind him. He turns his head to the side, watching Imane and Alaoui take their place amongst the dancers, and he startles when he sees Demaury there, staring at Lucas with an indecipherable expression.

“I’m sorry,” Lucas laughs, placing a hand over his chest. “You scared me.”

Demaury says nothing, just follows the path Lucas was staring down before, to where Imane and Alaoui are beginning to dance. It’s there where Lucas can see it, the small glances of Imane’s that land where Alaoui won’t notice them: between his shoulder blades, on the back of his neck. They’re subtle but they’re there, and Lucas feels a place under his ribs ache pleasantly, watching his friend fall into infatuation with someone who’s falling just as hard. It feels a bit like longing, and a bit like affection.

“Your friend is a wonderful dancer,” he says with a smile, turning towards Demaury. “Do you dance at all?”

Demaury blinks, as though he’s surprised Lucas is addressing him. “Ah…no.” He says shortly. “I try to avoid it.”

Lucas frowns. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

When Demaury doesn’t say anything else, he turns away from him, murmuring an, “Alright then,” under his breath as he walks back across the room, skirting the outside of the dancers.

He finds Yann, and accepts the glass of wine he offers him gratefully.

“He’s a bit unpleasant, isn’t he?” Yann asks.

Lucas looks back towards Demaury, and sees him in the exact place Lucas left him, his brow furrowed as though he’s angry about something. Lucas is beginning to wonder if that is just his usual expression: angry with the world for no reason at all. _What fight could he have_ , Lucas wonders, _a handsome man with ten thousand a year? What could there possibly be?_

“I don’t understand him,” he says, unable to think of any other way to unravel his conflicting feelings.

“I hear that he’s strange,” Yann says lowly.

Lucas’ head snaps towards him. “Strange how?”

“Just…wait a moment.” Yann gestures for Lucas to follow him to a more secluded corner of the room, tucked behind the rows of wooden benches erected for those waiting to dance, or recovering from a dance.

“What?” Lucas asks wryly once they’re hidden away from the paying eyes of the ballroom. “Are you about to tell me something very, very dastardly? Does Demaury have an illegitimate son we’re just learning of?”

Yann props one elbow onto the wood, leaning into his palm. “No. I just…I don’t know how true this is, so I don’t want anyone else to hear it, lest they start sharing it around.”

Lucas crosses his arms over his chest. “Very well, out with it.”

“I heard someone say that he’s…unwell.”

“Unwell? In what way?”

“Apparently he’s been known to take to his bed for days at a time.”

“I confess Yann, I would do that as well if I had the option.”

Yann gives a small laugh, shaking his head. “Not like that. From what I heard it’s…not good.”

“‘Not good’ in what way? You’re not making any sense.” Lucas isn’t entirely sure why, but he doesn’t like it, the idea of strangers spreading dark rumours about Demaury. They don’t even know him, and well, neither does Lucas, and in fact, the more he gets to know him the less he likes him, really, but that doesn’t mean that anyone can just say anything.

His eyes dart to the gaps between the seats, searching for a head of brown hair atop broad shoulders, but finding nothing. He bites down on the inside of his cheek.

Yann sets his glass down on one of the benches. He holds his hands out, palms flat. “I can barely make sense of what I heard. There was just the sense that…I don’t know. There’s something odd

“Interesting.” Lucas says at length. “But I suppose we’ll have to make our own judgements upon him, won’t we?”

Yann nods, knocking back the rest of his wine. “Remember, I’m not saying if they’re true. I know how harshly the tongues of bored locals can lash, Lucas.” His eyes grow earnest, searching, and Lucas becomes fascinated with the floor once again.

There are some moments when it feels as though everyone knows.

“Not sure I get your meaning, Yann,” he says quietly.

“Right.” Yann squeezes his shoulder gently, hand resting there for a beat before he pulls it away. He takes a deep inhale, and Lucas shifts anxiously on the spot. “What I mean, Lucas, is, I know that we live in a place where it can be hard to be yourself, and if you find you ever want to talk—”

Lucas’ eyes rise to the gaps in the benches just as Alaoui and Demaury come into view, their heads bent closely together in confidence.

“Quiet,” he hisses, smacking Yann across the chest. “It’s them.”

Yann frowns, rubbing at the spot Lucas hit. “Are we really eavesdropping right now?” He mutters but he falls silent as well, both of them leaning onto the benches so they can hear.

“I’ve never had so much fun at a ball,” Alaoui is saying, his hands clasped neatly behind him. “Nor danced with so many pretty girls.”

Demaury looks indifferent, his eyes scanning about the room. He stands so proudly, with his held held high and his shoulders straight back. Lucas thinks he looks like a toy soldier. “Well, your attentions seem focused on one in particular.”

Alaoui lets out a dreamy sigh. “She is the fairest creature I’ve ever beheld. And so intelligent! You know that she studies science on her own? I’ve never met a woman like her.” Yann smothers a laugh into his fist. Lucas plants his elbows onto the wood of the benches, grinning widely, already picturing the displeased, embarrassed face Imane will make when Lucas gleefully recounts Alaoui’s compliments to her.

Demaury stares at Alaoui. “Well. If you like her.” His tone is flat, emotionless. His gaze is still a distracted bird fluttering about the room.

“The Banet sisters are lovely, don’t you think?” Alaoui asks. He pauses, wringing his hands behind his back and saying, at length, “And that cousin of theirs. Lucas Lallemant.”

At once Demaury’s flighty gaze stops, captured and caught, and returns sharply to Alaoui.

“What about him?”

“He’s very agreeable.” Alaoui says, and there’s something in his tone, an undercurrent of suggestion that makes Lucas’ breath catch. It’s a suggestion that paints Lucas as someone worth noticing. Almost as if he could be someone with potential.

Romantic potential.

“He’s very clever, and he has lovely eyes. I don’t know if you noticed.” Alaoui continues, and Lucas’ heart is falling to his feet, and he’s aware Yann is staring at him, but he’s ignoring his gaze, raptly focused on Alaoui’s words and Demaury’s face. If Alaoui is talking about him in such a way, then it must mean that Demaury is—

Like him.

_Oh god_ , Lucas thinks. His heart is a galloping horse stuck in the confines of his chest. _Oh god._

“Why are you speaking to me of Lallemant?” Demaury asks, his voice so sharp and unyielding it cuts across Lucas’ hazy thoughts like a knife. “He is perfectly tolerable, from what I can see, but I fail to see what is so special about him that it would be cause for such excitement from you. Perhaps you can be won over by a moderately clever tongue and a pair of lovely eyes, but it takes more than that to impress me.”

“Eliott—” Alaoui interjects, worry written plainly across his face, but Demaury barrels on.

“You had best return to Miss Bakhellal and enjoy her smiles. I can see what you’re trying to do, Sofiane, to make me see some value in this place, but you’re wasting your time. I can see it for exactly what it is.”

Then he turns on his heel, and disappears into the crowd.

There’s a beat of silence, in the dark space behind the wooden benches, where Yann stares at Lucas and Lucas stares at the empty air previously occupied by Demaury. He feels too many things at once. He wants to laugh. He wants to stay inside of their dark corner and cry. He wants to find Demaury and pour his entire glass of red wine over his head.

But more than anything, he wants to forget that rush he felt, that sweet notion of possibility. He wants to forget that he let himself think that Demaury was like him. He let himself imagine, only for a moment, but a moment long enough to render him senseless, what it would be like to be desired by him.

(To dance with him. To be held by him. To—)

By now, Lucas is familiar with embarrassment and shame. These are emotions he’s been taught to feel by cruel boys and disapproving mothers, by men wearing black collars and slithering whispers from the congregation. There’s a way people have of talking about those like him, those who are different. There used to be two women who lived together in Hérisson. Artists that made their own income. Lovers, as the rumours went. _They should be ashamed of themselves_.

Shame was the first thing Lucas was taught. Then embarrassment followed, for every thought and every wish he ever had. His entire life has been comprised of attempts to outgrow these feelings, as though he can remove them like they’re old clothes and dress himself as a new person. But it has never been so simple, and sometimes, Lucas feels hopeless with it, caught between the person he’s sure he is, and the person he should be.

But he’ll be damned if he’ll let Demaury—pompous and arrogant, likely never experienced a difficult day in his _life_ Demaury—make him feel ashamed.

He picks his wine glass up again, taking one long swig that drains the glass. His eyes rise to Yann’s face. His mouth curls into a half-smile.

“I think we’re ready to pass judgement upon Demaury’s character now,” he says flatly, and Yann grins, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Think of it as a good thing. If he liked you at all, you’d have to talk to him.”

Lucas laughs, and it sounds only slightly hysterical. “Exactly.”

They emerge from their cavern of secrecy, rejoining the ball and immediately being called to dance, Yann with Imane, and Lucas with Alexia. Further down the line, Lucas sees Alaoui dancing with Manon, and a brief glance to his aunt tells him that she sees it as well. There’s a gleam in her eye that all the Banet children are all too familiar with.

Imane, however, doesn’t seem bothered at all.

“He can dance with whoever he likes,” she says with a laugh when Yann brings it up, their bodies drifting together then leaping apart, their hands swaying at their sides. “I have no claim on him.”

“You don’t want to put a claim on him?” Alexia asks incredulously, as if the thought of having such a man interested in you and not immediately proposing to him is preposterous.

“We’ve only just met,” Imane says, effectively putting the topic of conversation to rest.

It’s a curious indifference she wears when she’s speaking about him, Lucas notices, curious because it contradicts those glances he can see her stealing whenever she’s near Alaoui, the small smiles she sends to the floor, the chandeliers, the windows, rather than to Alaoui himself, even when they’re a result from something he said. It’s an indifference Lucas knows from wearing it often, attempting to hide his own feelings, and he knew that Imane was careful with her heart, but he didn’t realize exactly how careful until he sees it now, playing out before him.

Sussing out Alaoui’s own feelings is easy.

“She’s wonderful,” he gushes to Lucas as they stand in an uneven circle near the doors: himself, Alaoui, Manon, his aunt, and Demaury. Lucas grins at him, and Alaoui seems to catch himself, clearing his throat delicately and amending, “That is, she’s a wonderful dancer.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Banet says before Lucas can respond, her lace fan fluttering at the base of her neck. “Imane has always been such a splendid dancer. But, of course, you’ve seen that my Manon is a wonderful dancer as well, have you not?”

Lucas bites back a groan. Manon’s cheeks turn pink.

Alaoui blinks. “Ah, well. Yes.” He recovers easily, smiling at Manon and winking. “I enjoyed our dance very much, Miss Banet.”

Manon nods in thanks, but she’s also cut off by Mrs. Banet before she can speak, and there’s a queasy sensation brewing in Lucas’ stomach—a feeling very particular to the knowledge that his aunt is likely about to say something wholly embarrassing to all of them.

“My Manon has long been considered the beauty of Hérisson,” Mrs. Banet begins, her voice taking on a whimsical tone.

Manon’s eyes widen. “Mama,” she says sharply, but Mrs. Banet continues, her eyes glazed over as though she’s reciting her speech on an open stage before an enraptured audience.

“There was a gentleman who wished to marry her when she was only fifteen. Fifteen!”

Lucas sneaks one glance at Alaoui, who looks awkwardly attentive, and one to Demaury, who looks outwardly horrified. Manon, for her part, looks as though she wishes to become nothing more than a crystal hanging from the chandelier.

“Nothing came of it, in the end.” Mrs. Banet shuts her fan with a flourish. “But he did write her some pretty verses.”

Lucas spots a chance, and seizes it, quiet literally, grasping tightly onto his aunt’s forearm. “And that put an end to it, of course.” He gives an exaggerated shrug. “Show me a love that was never killed by verse.”

Alaoui laughs good-naturedly, and Lucas slowly releases his aunt arm, catching Manon’s grateful smile from across the circle.

“I thought poetry was the food of love,” Demaury says bluntly, startling them all, and it’s such an oddly romantic statement coming from a man who doesn’t wish to dance at a ball, that it very nearly makes Lucas laugh.

“Of a kind of love, maybe.” He purses his lips. “But I think poetry is best suited to that which is fleeting and superficial.”

“You think so? Then what would you suggest?” Demaury’s eyes flick to Alaoui, then back to Lucas. “To encourage affection.”

Lucas feels his mouth twitch. “Dancing.” He says sweetly, the previous queasy feeling in his stomach replaced by something new, something bold and angered. “Even if one can only find a partner who is…” He raises an eyebrow. “Perfectly tolerable.”

He sees the moment Demaury understands, the lines around his mouth tightening, and Lucas grins, inclining his head in a bow and turning on his heel, sauntering off to the other end of the room, satisfied, as he always is, that the last word belongs to him.

He recounts Demaury’s words to Imane on their walk home, as they trail behind the rest of their party: Mrs. Banet at the front, complaining of how sore her feet are, followed by Manon and Mr. Banet, their arms linked together, while Emma and Alexia stay on the fringes, drifting onto the grass banking the road and back, their hands clasped tightly together, still dancing even after the music has long finished. The wine they’ve been consuming all night sits bone-deep now, a drunkenness that is half giddiness, half exhaustion. It makes Lucas feel loose and satisfied. It makes him want to fall asleep in the grass and wake with the dawn.

But the dawn may not be far off. It’s late, far later than it should be for leaving a ball, late enough that the stars feel tired, hanging low in the indigo-black sky. Lucas tilts his head back to watch them, letting in a deep, full breath for what feels like the first time in hours.

“I can’t believe he said that about you.”

Lucas exhales to the sky, and his head returns to the earth, eyes drifting back to Imane, who looks somewhere between incredulous and furious.

“ _Moderately clever_.” She mimics, her voice comedically low and nasally. “He wouldn’t know cleverness if it was a stone knocking him sideways.”

“He’s not very nice,” Lucas says lightly. “But you know who is nice?” He nudges Imane in the side. “Mr. Alaoui.”

Imane turns an apathetic face towards him. “He’s agreeable enough.”

“Please!” Lucas crows. “He danced with you half the night, and stared at you the rest.”

Imane says nothing at that, but Lucas catches the small smile directed towards the dirt under their feet.

“He is very kind, Imane,” he says softly, ducking his head down to catch her eye. “And he likes you.”

“He doesn’t know me,” Imane says, just as softly, wrapping her shawl more tightly around herself.

“Then let him. It’s clear he wants to.” After a beat, he adds. “You could certainly do worse.”

Imane bursts into laughter. “Ah, there he is. I was worried for a moment, that you had been replaced by someone hopeful and romantic.”

“No.” Lucas is not hopeful. “No.” Or romantic. “I just want you to be happy.” He just wants to think about love, as a concept, from time to time. No one has to know apart from him and the stars.

As a reflex, his eyes drift up again, his head tilting back, his shoulders slumping down his spine.

“Hey.” Imane touches his elbow, pulling him back down to earth again, starry-headed Lucas drifting away if he’s not kept on a string. “I want you to be happy too, Lucas. You know that.”

Lucas nods, silent, and holds his arm out to her, her hand slipping into the crook of his elbow.

“I know,” he says, watching as Emma and Alexia nearly trip down a bend in the road, their arms flailing out, their giggles creating a summer night’s symphony with the night breeze and the distant croaks of bullfrogs.

He thinks of him only a little, after he drops Imane at home and drifts back to Beaufort, leaving his shoes in the kitchen and making the slow climb up the stairs. He thinks of the disdain in his voice when he said _it takes more than that to impress me_. He folds his clothes haphazardly in a pile on his chair, washes his face at the basin with icy water, and he thinks of how startled he looked when Alaoui brought up Lucas’ name. He stares at himself in the mirror, and he hears an echo of Demaury’s voice when he said _a moderately clever tongue and a pair of lovely eyes._

He’s angry, so angry at Demaury for making him feel so small, so unimportant, and he’s angry at himself for latching onto a seed of hope and letting it grow into a rosebush in his chest, and he’s angrier still, for the quiet curiosity stirring within him. A few times that night, he met Demaury’s eyes accidentally and he saw something there, a depth and complexity that pulled at his soul, that created a universe of questions on the tip of Lucas’ tongue, burning with the desire to be asked.

_But it doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself, watching as the first blue light of the approaching dawn plays over his face, curling over his cheeks, his lips, pooling into his eyes. _It doesn’t matter, because you’ll never see him again_.

When Lucas finally falls asleep, he dreams of a lake full of stars, a garden filled with moonlight, and a pair of bright eyes, searching for him in the darkness.

The first thing Lucas learns, once he’s finally risen, washed, and stumbled downstairs towards fresh tea and fresh bread, is that Lucille du Vionnet has invited Imane to Champrès Hall to dine with her.

“Can you _believe_ it?” Mrs. Banet asks incredulously, pacing beside the dining room table, her teacup trembling in its saucer. “Asking Miss _Bakhellal_?”

Lucas enters the room slowly, quietly, so as not to be noticed by his aunt, sliding into his chair and grinning at Emma when she immediately passes him the tea.

“Mama,” Alexia says with a laugh, leaning back in her chair and taking a large bite from an apple. “He danced with her for most of the night.”

“He danced with Manon as well!” Mrs. Banet protests, pointing one shaking finger at Manon, who promptly flushes and chokes on her sip of water, coughing into her arm. Alexia sighs and leans over to rub the heel of her hand into Manon’s back in small, soothing circles.

“Mama, please,” Manon sputters out on a cough. “It was so plain to everyone there how infatuated he is with her.”

“But—”

“Please.” Manon says, an earnestness softening her words that makes Mrs. Banet fall silent, her lips pursing together. “He has no feelings for me, and I have none for him.”

Mrs. Banet groans and collapses back into her seat, her tea sloshing over the sides of her cup. “I daresay it hardly looked as though Imane had feelings for him either.” She grumbles, picking up a fresh roll from the wicker basket at the centre of the table, staring into it as though it can reveal all the inner workings of the minds of young people to her.

“Imane’s shy,” Lucas finds himself saying before he even realizes the words are coming. Every head swivels towards him and he shrugs, spooning an unhealthy amount of sugar into his tea. He weighs, for a moment, how much Imane would want him to divulge to his family, then realizes she wouldn’t wish for him to be speaking about this at all, and he finishes lamely, “I’m sure his affections are returned.”

His aunt raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re an expert in matters of the heart now, hm?” She tears open the roll, reaching for the jam at her elbow. “Well. I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens.”

Outside of their windows, deep in the dark grey sky, Lucas thinks he hears the sound of thunder rumbling.

Manon must hear it too, because she leans closely to Lucas to whisper in his ear, “Seems as though Mama can control the elements now as well.”

“The physical world bending to her will.” Lucas whispers back.

“God help us all.” They finish in unison.

It’s just two days later when Mrs. Bakhellal appears at their door, carrying a stack of books and journals bound together with a leather belt.

“Lucas.” She smiles warmly when she sees him, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that makes him frown, ushering her inside.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, taking the bundle of books and setting it down on their hall table. “Is he getting worse?”

Imane recounted the entire story of her father to him, of the rain-slick roads that proved treacherous to their family’s carriage, resulting in an accident that broke one of the carriage’s wheels and her father’s leg, leaving the man grudgingly housebound. According to Imane, he spent most of his time outside in their garden, his face turned towards the sun, an open book in his lap.

_You understand it_ , Imane told him one day when they were dining together, her father’s silhouette outlined through the windows facing the garden. _He hates to be kept inside_.

Lucas did understand. Better than most, maybe.

Mrs. Bakhellal smiles, gently laying her hand on his. “No, he’s fine. He’s doing very well, in fact. It’s Imane I’ve come to speak to you about.”

Lucas blinks. “Imane?” He hadn’t heard a word from her since the news that she had been invited to Champrès, which put no end to salacious speculation from Emma and Alexia, so much so that it caused Mrs. Banet to banish them to the kitchen for the remainder of the morning.

“She travelled to Champrès Hall by horseback yesterday,” Mrs. Bakhellal explains, her mouth turning down at the corners. “The carriage is still in need of repair, you see, and Imane was…well, you know how she is. She was determined, so she went in the rain, and now she’s come down with a cold. They’re caring for her there.”

“Oh.” Lucas feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “Oh dear.” He can feel a laugh bubbling in his throat, at the absurdity of the situation, at how utterly _furious_ Imane must be that she’s been incapacitated by something as trivial as a cold.

He tries to hide it, but Mrs. Bakhellal catches it immediately, and she laughs, sharking her head fondly. “I know. Imane hates getting ill like nothing else in the world. But the truth is I am a little worried about her, and I wanted to bring her something to ease her frustration.” She gestures to the bundle. “A few of her favourites, as well as that journal she never parts from.”

Lucas nods. “I’m sure she will appreciate it.”

“I’m wondering if you could deliver them for me,” Mrs. Bakhellal continues, squeezing Lucas’ hand. “I’m sure my husband could cope with being left alone for the afternoon, but I can’t take the carriage, and now we have a horse stuck at Champrès Hall too, so would you mind terribly…” Her voice trails off, her eyebrows lifting.

“Not at all.” Lucas rests a hand on the bundle, grinning at her. “I can take it on foot.”

Mrs. Bakhellal blanches. “Oh Lucas, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no. Believe me.” He waves a hand out towards the drawing room, attempting to encompass the feeling of, _I cannot begin to tell you how much I have been longing for a good reason to be outdoors._ “I welcome the distraction. And you know I’m fond of walking.”

“I do.” Mrs. Bakhellal smiles softly, cupping his cheek. “I remember when I first saw you, covered in mud from head to toe and blissfully happy, trailing footprints down our rugs.” She pinches at the skin just over his cheekbone. “Nothing has changed since then, I suppose. Except you’ve grown far more handsome.”

“Alright, alright.” Lucas brushes her hand away, his cheeks warming, and she laughs, patting him on the shoulder.

“Thank you for this, Lucas.” She says earnestly. “Really. Please let me know how she is once you return.”

“Of course.” Lucas gathers the bundle under his arm and sees her out, not wasting a moment once she’s disappeared down the road to slip into his boots and don one of his uncle’s castoff coats.

“Where are you headed?” Alexia asks him as he passes through the kitchen, stealing an apple and tucking it into his pocket. “Is that one of Papa’s coats?”

“It might rain again,” Lucas explains, dancing around the tables towards the back door. “I’m going to visit Imane at Champrès Hall.”

“You’re doing _what_?” Emma gasps, nearly upending the chair she was tilting backwards, one foot propped onto the hearth.

Lucas pauses by the door. He wonders if the girls have been feeling the same way he has that day, as though the walls of the house are closing on him, tightening with every lap he takes around the drawing room. He wonders if, like him, their usual distractions have not been able to distract them enough. He wonders if they feel the same restlessness he does, and he feels selfish for seizing on an opportunity to wander outside with a purpose, and to not invite them along. “Do you want to join me?”

“Oh, you’re sweet.” Alexia waves a wooden spoon at him. “But no, thank you darling. We’re going to go see the regiment march in.” She waggles her eyebrows, Emma letting out a happy sigh from her chair. “In all of their finery.”

Lucas cackles, opening the back door and slipping through. “Enjoy yourselves, then.”

A chorus of, “We will!” follows him outside just before the door slams closed.

The walk is both excellent, and terrible.

The air is fresh, the trees dance in the wind, and the apple he stole from the kitchen is delicious, crunching satisfyingly between his teeth, juice running down to his chin. But he didn’t anticipate how much mud there would still be from the rain, and he didn’t anticipate that today, of all days, the sky would have nothing but blazing sunshine.

By the time he arrives at Champrès, his boots are covered in mud up to the ankle, his uncle’s coat is folded over his arm, and his cravat is undone, his shirt hanging open at the collar and sweat pooling at the base of his neck.

He knows how he looks, barely fit to be seen, but he’s beyond caring. He just wants to see Imane and have the chance to wash up before he leaves again, and his guess is Alaoui won’t mind. There’s an openness to him that inspires comfort, that makes Lucas think he won’t judge him for coming to call while looking like he’s come off of a pirate ship.

But the thing is, in all of his sunburnt, sweaty focus, he had honestly forgotten that there were still other people staying at Champrès apart from Alaoui.

“Oh.” He says quietly, as a set of ornate double doors open, and he enters into a large room with high ceilings and tall, wide windows, where Demaury and Lucille du Vionnet are sitting at a small table together, with what looks like a generous lunch spread out in front of them.

“A Mr. Lallemant to see you,” the footman announces, and both of them look up from the table, both of them widening their eyes when they see Lucas.

There’s a pause, and then Demaury rises from the table so quickly he hits his knee off of the corner, letting out a quiet, dignified grunt of pain. Lucille stares at him, her mouth dropping open. Lucas bits down hard on the inside of his cheek to avoid laughing.

“Mr. Lallemant.” Lucille greets him, and he tears his eyes away from Demaury’s struggle to bow towards her, not missing the way her eyes travel down to his mud-covered boots. “Goodness,” she says with a laugh. “Did you walk here?”

Lucas fights the urge to smooth a hand over his hair. “I did.”

Demaury is still standing at attention next to the table, silent as a statue. Lucas feels a drop of sweat slide down his throat into the open collar of his shirt, and he clutches his uncle’s coat more tightly to his front, feeling at once too vulnerable, too exposed under both of their gazes.

“How, ah…” He licks his lips. “How is Miss Bakhellal?”

“She’s upstairs,” Demaury says in a rush, and Lucas blinks at him, somehow just as surprised to hear Demaury speak as he was the last time, in the Cazas’ ballroom.

“Thank you,” Lucas says politely, and neither Lucille nor Demaury say anything else.

Lucas leaves them, with their beautiful lunch in their high-ceilinged room, and he finds his way upstairs to Imane, who’s resting in one of the many expensively-furnished guest rooms, propped up on a sea of silk pillows in a linen nightshirt, her hair wrapped up neatly in a bright red scarf.

She smiles when he opens the door. “Lucas.” Then her eyebrows raise, and she laughs. “Look at the state of you.”

“Look at the state of _you_ ,” Lucas counters petulantly, dropping heavily onto the side of her bed. “I can’t remember the last time you were ill.”

“God, I know.” Imane’s voice is rough and low. Her eyes are glazed and the tip of her nose is rubbed raw. “It’s such an inconvenience.”

“Imane, you can hardly help it,” Lucas snorts. He waves one hand about the room. “And if you are going to be ill, don’t you think it’s best to do so in such a comfortable bed? In such a nice estate? Under the watchful eye of _such_ a kind man?”

With what seems like a Herculean effort of strength, Imane plucks one of the pillows out from under her head and whacks it across Lucas’ face.

Lucas squawks at the impact, snatching the pillow from Imane and aiming it at her head.

“Lucas!” She cries, her voice cracking halfway through his name. “You can’t throw a pillow at someone who’s ill!”

“You started it!”

There’s a knock on the open door and they both stop, leaning sideways to see Alaoui standing in the doorway, smiling widely.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” He says kindly, stepping into the room.

Lucas shakes his head. “Don’t worry. You just witnessed one battle in a war that’s been raging on for nearly a decade.”

Alaoui laughs, taking another step closer to the bed. “You’ve known each other that long?”

Lucas grins, nudging Imane’s knee with his own. “Feels like longer.” He tilts his head back to glance at Alaoui. “We consider her to be an honorary Banet.”

“Is that so?” Alaoui asks, and he looks as though he’s considering exactly what that might mean, that marrying Imane means marrying her parents, her brother, but also marrying the Banets, in all of their ridiculousness.

Lucas isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks Alaoui looks thrilled by the idea.

“Are you staying long?” He asks Lucas, bouncing onto his toes. He reminds Lucas of an overexcited puppy. It’s endlessly endearing.

“No, no.” Lucas holds up the bundle of books. “I was sent by her mother with some essentials.” He drops the bundle onto the bed. “She says to say thank you, as well. For taking care of her.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Alaoui says happily, then seems to consider that and quickly amends, “Not a pleasure that she’s ill. It’s a pleasure that she’s ill…here.” He finishes with a blush, pressing his lips together.

From her castle of pillows and blankets, Imane looks over to him with a soft, fond smile. It would be subtle, if anyone else was witnessing it, but for Lucas, who knows her, who saw the way she was looking at Alaoui during the ball, it’s a confirmation of epic proportions.

Lucas props his elbow up on his knee, dropping his chin into his palm.

_And there it is_ , he thinks, watching as they smile at each other, and looking for all the world like they wouldn't mind doing anything but that for the rest of the day.

Alaoui lets Lucas wash up before he leaves, which turns into Lucas being invited to dinner that evening, and results in himself, Alaoui, Lucille, and Demaury all heading to the drawing room to pass the last few hours of the afternoon.

The moment that Lucas enters the room, he notices a small balcony tapering off to the side, with a brass telescope folded into itself in the corner, and he lets out an unchecked, excited gasp.

Alaoui notices his delight and grins. “The telescope, yes? Imane mentioned that you have an interest in the stars.”

“Did she?” Lucas murmurs distractedly, moving towards the telescope and brushing his hands over it carefully, reverently. It’s beautiful, with heavy fixtures and a wide lens. Lucas is aching to try it.

“Is it yours?” He asks, turning to face Alaoui again. Lucille has claimed a spot on the sofa, opening a book, while Demaury has busied himself with searching the contents of the desk at the centre of the room.

“It was my father’s,” Alaoui says, crossing over to the balcony to stand next to Lucas, his eyes roaming over the telescope warmly. “I confess, I do not hold the same interest he did in the sky, but I would hate to part with it. It meant so much to him.”

Lucas looks back down to the telescope, noticing the engravings in the side, initials that must have belonged to Alaoui’s father. “Of course,” he says softly.

“But you must come here and use it,” Alaoui continues, clapping Lucas on the shoulder. “Anytime you like!”

Lucas’ head whirls towards him, a wide smile blooming on his face. He can’t begin to imagine how much progress he could make on his map with something like this. His mind takes off onto a daydream without him, leading him to wonder if with an instrument such as this, he could make something impressive enough to get some attention, maybe even impressive enough to gain him admittance to the university in Paris.

“Really?” He asks breathlessly, and Alaoui nods, laughing.

“I insist! It’s a shame that it doesn’t get used more.”

Lucas wants to rush back upstairs to Imane’s room, throw open her door, and tell her that she needs to marry Alaoui soon, or Lucas will instead.

“I would love to,” he says.

“Perfect! Then consider this your open invitation Lucas Lallemant: you may come around anytime you wish and do…” He frowns at the telescope. “Whatever it is you do with this.”

Lucas laughs, following Alaoui away from the balcony and back into the drawing room. “You look at the stars with it.”

“Oh, I know that. I just mean, I’m not sure how it works _technically_ …”

“Right.”

Lucille and Demaury glance up at them in unison, with expressions that are eerily similar in their stoicism. Alaoui, unfazed, falls into an armchair in the corner, pulling a small leather-bound book out of his pocket.

“Oh!” He gestures at the bookshelves lining the room with one hand. “Please pick something out from the shelves, if you would like to read.”

Lucas smiles in thanks, and walks a slow, wandering path along the edge of the room, entertaining himself more with browsing through the collection rather than deciding what he himself wants to read. He lets his fingers skim over the leather spines, mouthing the titles silently to himself, taking stock of any curiosities within the shelves so he can relay them to Imane, if she ever want to borrow any for herself.

And that is the moment it occurs to Lucas for the first time that, if Imane does decide to marry Mr. Alaoui, then this will be her house as well. It’s a strange thought, picturing Imane wandering down the expansive halls and making a home for herself in the high-ceilinged rooms. It’s impossible for Lucas to imagine himself in such a position, even if marriage was still a possibility for him, a romantic ideal rather than a dreaded commitment his aunt still attempts to force upon him.

“You write uncommonly fast, Mr. Demaury.” A voice cuts through Lucas’ thoughts and he turns to see Lucille leaning over Demaury’s shoulder, closely enough that her hair falls onto his neck.

He frowns, turning back to the bookshelf.

“Thank you for your observation, Lucille.” Demaury says flatly in response.

“Do give my regards to darling Daphné.”

“I will.”

“Is that your sister?” Lucas asks, his curiosity too strong to ignore, and Demaury spares him a glance before nodding once. The light pouring in from the window across him him paints his profiles into sharp contrast, bathing his cheeks in warmth. He bites down on his bottom lip and Lucas glances away, stepping towards another shelf and scanning his eyes down the titles without reading them.

“I would try another shelf, perhaps.”

Lucas turns, once again, and Demaury is looking over at him, the faintest smile on his lips.

“That shelf is all poetry,” Demaury explains, and Lucas laughs, stepping away from it with his hands spread widely out to his sides.

“You’ve warned me well. I can now save myself from pretty words,” Lucas says grandly, moving onto the next shelf.

“You don’t care for pretty words, Mr. Lallemant?” Lucille asks from her spot on the sofa, closing her book daintily in her lap. Lucas opens his mouth to respond but she continues, “I think there is no finer joy than reading. One of the keenest pleasures, don’t you agree, Mr. Demaury?”

Demaury glances back at her. “I believe there are keener pleasures,” he says simply, before returning to his letter.

“Such as what?”

Demaury scratches another line into the page before he says, “Walking.”

Lucas, still facing away from them, smothers a smile into the palm of his hand.

“Now, I do believe you’ve inspired me, Mr. Demaury.” Lucas hears the sound of fabric rustling. “Mr. Lallemant is already taking a turn about the room. I shall join him.”

Annoyance flares in Lucas’ chest and he turns, opening his mouth to protest, but Lucille is already upon him, linking her arm through his with a sweet smile.

“Shall we?” She asks, and Lucas says nothing, only lets himself be pulled along with her. He hadn’t been determined to dislike Lucille at the start. In fact, he’d been indifferent to her, right until he began to see how she wears her disdain obviously, is proud to be a snob, and makes it clear she holds no warm feelings towards Lucas, his family, or even, he suspects, Imane. The very last thing Lucas wants to to is take a pleasant stroll around the room with her. He desperately wishes dinner was ready.

“Sofiane,” Lucille begins, and Alaoui raises his head from his book, blinking dazedly at her as though she’s pulled him from a particularly engrossing passage. “Before you decide to go forward with this plan for a ball, perhaps you should consult the present company.” She turns her head to feign conspiring with Lucas, but her voice is loud enough to carry over to Demaury when she says, “You know Mr. Demaury _detests_ balls.”

Alaoui grins, leaning forward in his armchair so he can slap Demaury good-naturedly on the back. “Tough luck, though, Eliott. If you decide you really don’t wish to attend, then you must stay in bed, I’m afraid.”

“He can do that,” Lucille says with a giggle, and Demaury’s gaze cuts up to her so suddenly, so sharply that her laughter dies in her throat. Lucas’ heart clenches at his expression.

_Apparently he’s been known to take to his bed for days at a time,_ was what Yann had told him.

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, which Lucille decides to barrel through, stopping the pair of them at Demaury’s desk and asking, “Would you care to join us, then, Mr. Demaury? We promise we’ll be kind.”

Demaury shakes his head. “I only want to finish my letter.”

Lucille sighs. “Fine.” She pulls Lucas along for another lap around the outskirts of the room. “Mr. Demaury is much too serious for such frivolities anyway.”

“Are you implying that Mr. Lallemant is not serious?” Demaury asks, which makes Lucille roll her eyes.

“I’m implying only that he enjoys walking. But you do like to laugh, don’t you, Mr. Lallemant?”

“I love to laugh,” Lucas says mildly. “I find that to be one of the earth’s _keenest_ pleasures.” He doesn’t miss the narrow-eyed glance that Lucille sends towards him, and has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling.

“A family trait, I think.” Lucille says shortly, pulling him on a sharp turn so they once again approach Demaury’s desk. “So unlike you, Mr. Demaury.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow at this. “You don’t care to laugh?”

Demaury slowly raises his head, and at length says, “I do not wish to be ridiculed.”

Lucille drops Lucas’ arm, continuing over to the window. “You see there, Mr. Lallemant. He is too proud.”

Lucas turns back to Demaury, watching how the light plays against his eyes, turning them a colourless blue on a weary face. At once, Lucas wants nothing more than to make him laugh.

The strength of the desire disturbs him, upends him. He hastily forces it away, and instead, digs deeper, looks for the right place to poke and prod.

“Is that so, Mr. Demaury? But wouldn’t you consider pride to be the sort of fault that lends itself well to ridicule?”

Demaury lowers his eyes. “Not in a fair mind.”

Lucas hums, trailing a finger down the edge of the desk. “It seems we can find no fault in you, then.”

“I’m sure,” Demaury says, “that you could find many, if you go looking for them.” His eyes rise to Lucas’. “I cannot speak for my temper. It is…changeable. But I do not suffer liars, or those with selfish hearts, and for that, I am guarded.”

“Ah ha!” Lucas cries triumphantly. “That is a fault! Not one that I can laugh at, admittedly, but it does reveal character.”

Demaury gives a small shrug, and it is the least elegant motion Lucas has ever seen him make. “I believe every person possesses qualities that cannot be taught away, as damning or unappealing as they are.”

“Well your _quality_ ,” Lucas says, “is a willful propensity to mistrust everyone.”

“And yours,” Demaury says with a smile, “is a willful propensity to misunderstand everyone.”

Lucas’ mouth drops open. Demaury glances back down at his letter, clearly pleased with himself. Alaoui watches the proceedings from his armchair, his book open in his lap and his chin propped up on his hand. Lucille watches from the window, her lips pulled down into a frown, her eyes sharp on Lucas as he steps away from Demaury’s desk, shaking his head and biting down on the inside of his cheek, returning to his perusal of the bookshelves.

No one is watching when Demaury sneaks one final glance over his shoulder, his eyes following the slow, wandering path curious fingers take down the spines of old books.

Lucas returns to collect Imane only a week later in the Banet carriage, grinning at the displeased expression on Lucille’s face when she sees him.

“I won’t be long,” Lucas says cheerfully. “Don’t worry.”

But it does take time, firstly to gather Imane’s things, and then to finally pull her away from Alaoui, who seems determined to draw out their goodbye in front of the carriage for as long as he possibly can, even while Demaury and Lucille wait next to him, clearly bored.

“Next week!” Alaoui tells Imane excitedly. “If we begin preparations today, then we should have everything ready in time.”

Imane frowns. “Is that not too soon?”

“Not at all. I know that,” Alaoui smiles at Lucas, “some young ladies have been very desperate for another ball, in fact.”

Lucas laughs. “Careful. If they know they have you in the palms of their hands then they’ll begin to expect a ball from you every month.”

“I look forward to seeing them,” Alaoui says, then lowers his voice, leaning towards Imane. “You’ll come as well, won’t you? That is, only if you’re feeling well enough. I would never want to—”

“I’ll come,” Imane interrupts him gently. She hugs her stack of books close to her chest. “It sounds lovely.”

“Great!” Alaoui exclaims. When Lucas smothers a laugh into his sleeve, he adds, more subdued, “That’s, ah, that’s great. It will be a…nice time. For everyone.”

As fond as Lucas is of the pair of them, there’s only so much more of this that he himself can take.

“Thank you so very much for your hospitality, Mr. Alaoui,” he says, bowing before him. “But I really must get her home.”

Alaoui does let her go then, but only after he assists Imane with getting into the carriage, holding onto her hand until she’s seated. Imane manages to look both fondly annoyed and grudgingly charmed by the whole endeavour.

Lucas gives polite, curt goodbyes to Lucille and Demaury, and then, while Imane and Alaoui continue to stare at each other, steps up into the carriage, and promptly trips on one of the rungs. He would have fallen back onto the ground were it not for a steadying hand at his back, and another gripping onto his hand, helping Lucas right himself.

“Are you alright?” Demaury asks, and Lucas nods, staring down at the place where their hands overlap. The warmth of Demaury’s palm against his back is tangible, even through his layers of wool and cotton. The palm shifts, and Lucas feels his shirt shifting with it, a shiver rising in its wake.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Lucas practically throws himself into the carriage, dropping onto the bench across from Imane. “Thank you,” he says shortly, sure that his cheeks must be pink with embarrassment, with _something_ , while Demaury just nods, his expression inscrutable.

The carriage jolts forwards, and Demaury turns his back to them, striding back to the doors of Champrès while Lucille and Alaoui watch their bouncing progress to the end of the road.

No one sees the way Demaury’s pace slows as the sound of the carriage grows fainter in his ears, or the way his hands clench at his sides.

It is difficult to say, in the week that follows, what generates more excitement in the Banet household: the upcoming ball at Champrès, or the presence of the regiment in town. Both are the promise of romance, of a kind: one a promise from a place, from all the mysteries and possibilities of a single night; the other a promise from a person, not a specific person, but an ideal of one. A tall, striking man dressed in blue and white, held together with gold buttons and a mysterious scar.

Mrs. Banet, who now saw Alaoui as nothing more than a lost cause, had moved forward from the site of defeat like many a proud general before her: head held high, and a new battle plan ready to execute.

“An officer,” she says one afternoon while fanning herself, “would make one a _very_ acceptable husband.”

“I think Alexia has about three officers in mind,” Lucas replies without looking up from his map. “Do you think combined they would make the perfect husband?”

Alexia and Emma go to town as often as they can to view the spectacle the officers create, and Lucas sees even Manon, who often is quiet on matters of men and marriage, sparing smiles for gallant officers who tip their hats for her, who offer to pick up handkerchiefs that don’t even belong to her.

“You could say, right now,” Lucas tells her one day as he accompanies the girls to Hérisson to shop for ribbons for the ball, “that you want a husband, and they would line up.”

Manon laughs, shaking her head. The sun is bright that day, spinning her hair into gold and turning her eyes sea green in its light. She looks beautiful, and it seems as though every officer in the area is noticing it.

“Like cattle they would!” Lucas continues, waving his hand towards a group of officers watching them pass by. “And you could pick the handsomest one.”

“How ideal.” Manon says with a quirk of the mouth. “I’ll pick him on looks alone and nothing else, shall I?”

“Well, what else could there be?”

“Certainly not personality, humour, intelligence…”

“But those only become of interest _if_ you talk to him regularly.”

“That’s terrible.” Manon flicks a delicate finger at the collar of his jacket. “I don’t believe for a moment you’re that cynical.”

Lucas makes an offended face, weaving around another group of officers. “Manon, it upsets me greatly to hear my cynicism doesn’t come across as genuine.”

“Oh, shut up. No one adores the stars and the moon so much as you and doesn’t have room in their heart for other people.”

And that stops Lucas completely. Stops him at the start of a rebuttal, his mouth hanging open, and stops him physically on the path, Manon passing him at an easy pace.

There is, when you look at things plainly, no real reason for Lucas to be cynical, for him to look at love as an unappealing ailment or to view marriage as an inconvenience. But with humans, things are rarely as plain as they can be stated on a flat page, and Lucas’ heart was heavy for someone so young, soft but hardened, a shell of stone for a beating centre, and Lucas put on cynical airs like an overcoat for no reason other than self-preservation. Letting himself hope means letting himself get hurt. Letting himself dream means letting himself succumb to loneliness.

He forgot that a false front is no match for family, for friends, and he’s never prepared for a moment such as this, just as he was with Imane, where someone is able to brush aside the overcoat of cynicism and say, _I see you, Lucas_.

He jogs forward to catch Manon before she turns into the store, her bonnet fluttering in the wind, one hand plastered tightly to the top of it to keep it fixed to her head.

“I have no problem with other people,” Lucas argues. “But marriage, now that’s—”

He’s reaching for the handle of the door at the same moment it bursts open, causing them to leap back, both of Manon’s hands over her bonnet, Lucas’ up near his face as though he’s about to warrant off an attack.

“Oh.” There’s a man standing in the doorway. Tall and handsome, with brown hair slicked back on his head, and a white and navy coat buttoned snugly over his broad chest. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” He takes a step towards them, his eyes wide. “Are you alright?”

Lucas assumes he’s speaking to Manon, but after she says, _Yes, thank you_ , the man turns his eyes onto Lucas.

“Are you alright?” He asks softly.

Lucas, horrifyingly, feels a blush touch the highest points of his cheeks.

“No.” He blurts out, then says, “I mean yes! Yes. I’m—we’re alright.” He smoothes a hand down the front of his jacket. “Thank you.”

“It seems I made too quick an escape from the ribbons.” The officer says good-naturedly, closing the door of Mme. Fragonard’s behind himself. “They intimidate me so.”

Manon laughs lightly. Lucas grins, raising his eyebrows.

“Intimidated by ribbons? How on earth do you fare on the field of battle?”

The officer clasps his hands behind himself, rocking back onto his heels. “Oh, very well, actually. But as soon as I return to the world of ribbons and buckles, I am lost.”

“Buckles too? You must be the laughing stock of the regiment.”

“I most certainly am. But,” the officer holds his hands out at his sides, an easy smile on his face. “I’m a lowly foot solider, so they forget me soon enough.”

“Mr. Munier!”

Emma and Alexia appear from the very air, practically jumping onto the officer, gripping onto his arms and talking at once, the officer’s head switching rapidly between them as he tries to keep up. But, Lucas realizes, he hardly looks like he minds, smiling warmly at both girls and laughing along with them, letting himself be pulled into two different directions.

“How is it they know everyone?” Manon whispers, and Lucas’ eyes slide over to her.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Emma has a registration of officers by now,” Lucas whispers back.

“This is Mr. Munier,” Alexia tells them excitedly, squeezing the officer’s arm. “We met him just the other day!”

“He’s very kind,” Emma says, leaning her head onto his shoulder. She winks at Manon. “Very gallant.”

The officer—Mr. Munier—shakes his head, smiling. “They flatter me.”

“This is our sister, Manon, and our cousin, Lucas Lallemant.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Where are you off to today, Mr. Munier?” Alexia asks, still clasped onto his arm.

“Ah, nowhere at all, really. Are you shopping?”

“We have to get ribbons,” Emma complains, as though it’s the worst fate she can think of. “You know,” she says, poking Munier in the side, “you men have it so much easier. You can don your trousers and your jacket and be off. Nothing about _ribbons_.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Alexia tugs on his arm, dragging him towards the shop.

Munier glances back at Manon and Lucas, as if asking for permission.

Manon smiles in a way only an older sister used to falling to the whims of her younger siblings can: indulgent and resigned. “If you can bear it, Mr. Munier.”

“That sounds perfect,” Munier says, and Alexia lets out a happy squeal. She’s the first into the shop, disappearing through the door in the span of a blink, then Manon follows, and Emma, reluctantly.

Munier gestures for Lucas to go ahead of him, and as he passes by, Lucas says quietly, “Don’t worry. It’s known that there is safety in large numbers when dealing with ribbons. You’ll be safe with us.”

Behind him, Munier bursts into laughter.

Over the course of a lazy, luxurious hour spent shopping and walking in the bright sunshine, Munier proves himself to be the exact type of person Lucas thought he was at first impression: friendly and open, with a gift for communicating with strangers, someone who could probably make friends in the middle of a battlefield. He laughs easily and does not seem take himself too seriously. He’s kind but strong in his views.

Emma and Alexia clearly adore him, demanding his opinions on ribbons and laughing uproariously whenever he speaks. Munier for his part, seems fond of them, listening intently when they speak to him, and going easily along with their ideas, even offering to purchase their ribbons for them.

“Oh, no.” Manon steps in, a gentle hand on Munier’s arm. “Please don’t.”

“I insist,” Munier says, and they leave it at that, Manon stepping back from him and hiding a smile by sending it towards a table filled with pale silk.

Lucas sees it, though. Lucas sees the charm Munier easily exudes, sees how it makes people flock to him, sees how it makes the other women in the shop eye him curiously, their hands trailing distractedly across silk and lace. Lucas imagines he must be popular wherever the regiment stops.

He expects Munier to give most of his attention to Manon—which is normal, really. Manon being the eldest daughter, beautiful and kind, and Lucas being the annoyingly sharp-tongued cousin, it just happens that way. Manon is the star, and Lucas is the star-watcher.

But when he’s not dividing his attention between Alexia and Emma, Munier will return to Lucas, picking up a thread of their conversation that Lucas thought had been over, returning with another point, his eyes bright when he says, _Alright, but what about this?_

Lucas has never, in his entire life, been able to resist a debate, so it comes as no surprise to him, or to anyone else, that he meets Munier’s challenges head on. They use words like they’re sparring with them, exchanging good-natured barbs over ribbon displays, and smiling sheepishly when they’re eventually told to keep their voices down.

He knows that Munier possesses a combination of charm and good looks that is lethal in the hearts of young women. He knows that Munier must be aware of this—he’d be a fool not to be. He knows that men like him are not uncommon, who can sweep grandly into the room and catch the affection of every eye there.

He knows all of this, but as they begin to leave Hérisson, with Munier demanding he walk them home, Lucas can feel himself slowly becoming charmed as well, sinking into a comfort, a camaraderie with Munier that he’s rarely felt with any other men, apart from Yann, Basile, and Arthur. And perhaps Alaoui as well. Certainly not Demaury.

And of course, the moment Lucas thinks the name, he summons the man.

“Mr. Alaoui!” Alexia cries, waving at two approaching figures on horseback, their coats unbuttoned and their hats low over their eyes.

“Good afternoon.” Alaoui greets them cheerfully. He tips the brim of his hat back, his eyes crinkling in the glare of the afternoon sun.

“We had to go shopping for your ball,” Emma says tartly, waving a ribbon through the air. “For _ribbons_.”

Alaoui laughs, gripping tightly to his reins with one hand as his horse kicks anxiously in place, smooth his free hand comfortingly down its neck. “Well they do look lovely, but I’m sorry you had to go through that hardship just for me.”

“You’ll just have to owe me a dance,” Emma says with a sniff. Then, more teasingly, “That is, if you don’t spend each one with Miss Bakhellal.”

Even from how far apart they are, Lucas can see the deep flush spreading across Alaoui’s cheeks.

Next to him, Demaury tips his hat back just enough that he can look down at them, his eyes passing over the girls until they land on Lucas, stopping for only a moment before they cut to Munier like a knife. Lucas glances back at Munier, curious, and sees him staring back at Demaury, his eyebrows furrowed together.

“Oh, this is Mr. Munier!” Alexia says, patting him on the shoulder, distracting him out of his standoff with Demaury. “He’s a new acquaintance of ours.” She lets out a small gasp, hitting Munier on the shoulder with more force. “You should invite him to the ball, Mr. Alaoui!”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Alexia, you can’t invite people to other people’s balls.”

But Alaoui is already nodding, and smiling, but before he can reply, Demaury kicks his heels into his horse’s sides and takes off at a gallop, leaving Alaoui behind in a dusty wake.

“Ah…” Alaoui turns back to them, tipping his hat once again. “Sorry, I need to—” He gestures vaguely at the space Demaury was previously occupying, and Lucas could guess at about a hundred possibilities of what that gesture could mean.

_I need to go after him._

_I need to go see if he’s alright._

_I need to go ask him why he’s such a prick all the time._

“But yes,” Sofiane calls over his shoulder as he guides his horse onto Demaury’s path. “Please come, Mr. Munier!”

And then he’s gone as well, and Lucas, Manon, Emma, and Alexia are all left standing on the side of the road with dust and sunlight in their eyes, wondering exactly what it is they just saw.

No one mentions it as they walk, though. Demaury’s early departure is left safely behind at the crossroad between town and country, and as they wander through the summer fields together, Alexia brings up the ball again, trying to speculate who will dance with who, describing her dress in detail to Munier, telling stories of the last ball they went to, how they danced nearly all night, and how they’ll need to dance even more at this ball.

“Until sunrise,” Alexia crows, twirling on the spot in a patch of wildflowers, a trio of bumblebees following the path of her sailing ribbon. “Until the stars disappear.”

No one mentions it, but Munier is noticeably subdued as they walk, smiling at Alexia as she dances, laughing along with Emma, but only being pulled into conversation again by Manon or Lucas, and when he is, only lasting for a few minutes before he falls into silence again.

They arrive back at Beaufort in the time between afternoon and evening, when the front of the house is bathed in liquid fire and the day grows quiet, every living creature anticipating the moment when it all shifts again, when the start of something for a few becomes the ending of something for others.

“Will you join us for dinner, Mr. Munier?” Manon asks, stopping with one hand resting on top of the gate. “I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have you.”

“Oh, no. No.” Munier takes a step back from them, clasping his hands behind his back. He’s framed by the sun like that, his silhouette lit in bright, bold orange and his eyes nearly turned black from shadow. “I don’t want to impose. And anyway, I have to return to the regiment. We’re meant to dine together, tonight.”

Manon takes this rejection in stride. “Another time, then.” She bows fluidly, the hem of her dress just brushing against the grass. “Or,” she rises from the bow, the corner of her mouth quirking as she raises her eyes to Munier. “Perhaps we will see you at Alaoui’s ball.”

Lucas is sure, if Munier wasn’t interested in Manon beforehand, this would be the moment that changes that: when a single, perfect strand of Manon’s hair escapes from her bonnet, brushing across her cheek as she smiles, coloured in every fair hue of summertime.

Lucas fights the urge to sigh.

“Perhaps.” Munier echoes. “If I see you, then I will have to demand a dance.”

Satisfied with this, Manon finally opens the gate, and sails through with only a brief backwards glance, her summertime smile still in place.

Emma and Alexia each rise onto their toes to kiss Munier’s cheeks, cackling with delight when he makes a shocked noise, stumbling back.

“See you at the ball, then, Mr. Munier!” Emma calls, as she and Alexia dance away together to the music of their own laughter.

It leaves Lucas and Munier in silence, and Lucas nods at him before turning away, expecting him to leave.

He tilts his head back, spots a pale crescent moon just over the reach of one of the elms, and lets out the sigh he’d been holding in, breath tinged with a longing he can’t quite put a name to.

After Lucas lost own his mother, and before he considered Mrs. Banet to be anything other than his decidedly unhinged aunt, he began thinking of the moon as his mother, a constant benevolent eye on the top of his head, a gentle, centring presence in the darkest of nights. It’s a comfort he’s never lost, even as he’s grown older, and whenever he stops to consider it, Lucas realizes he isn’t sure which came first: his fascination with the stars or his affection for the moon.

“I know you must have wondered.”

There’s a voice, bringing him back down to earth once again, and Lucas blinks, turns his head towards Munier, who’s gazing off into the distance, his brow furrowed in the same way it was when he saw Demaury.

“I did.” Lucas agrees. “But if you do not wish to tell me, I—”

“The truth of it is Demaury and I have known each other since we were boys.” Munier says bluntly, and Lucas’ voice dies in his throat.

“You may very well be shocked,” Munier continues, “given how cold our greeting was. Are you familiar with him?”

Lucas thinks of stilted conversation at a ball, a cold dismissal given behind his back. “About as well as I would like to be. He is…difficult.”

“Well, I don’t know if I could agree with you on that. I know him too well.” Munier’s head drops down low, his shoulders hunching together. “I would never speak ill of him.”

There’s a pause, where Munier seems to gather his thoughts, placing both hands against the low stone wall running along the edge of their property. His shoulders are tense under his navy and white jacket.

“We grew up together.” Munier turns his face towards him, a wistful smile there, and Lucas can see him: a small, outgoing boy who dreams of being a soldier, spending his days in the woods, returning home a mess. He struggles to picture Demaury in the same way. He can only see him as a pale, sullen child hiding himself in dark corners.

“My father ran the Demaury estate for years, and in that time Demaury and I became as close as brothers. When my own father died, I continued to live with them. I became a part of their family.”

Lucas listens, rapt, barely aware of the sun as it slips closer towards the horizon.

“I had my heart set on the clergy, actually. I was raised for it. And Demaury’s father, he knew this, and he wanted to help me. I cannot speak enough of his kindness.” Munier’s eyes are distant again, as if he’s recalling the man’s face as he speaks of him, watching the memories play out before his eyes. “He was a generous man, and loved me like a son. He wanted to see me succeed, and in his final years, offered me the parsonage in Loire-et-Cher. There, I could have made a comfortable life for myself. I could have been secure in my future. But upon the late Mr. Demaury’s death, the parsonage was given to someone else.”

“What?” Lucas feels his mouth drop open. “Couldn’t you dispute that?”

Munier shakes his head sadly. “It was given too informally. I had nothing in writing, nothing other than the love of a father and my own word, but they were no match for him. Demaury claimed I…” Munier sighs, waving a hand out, “did all sorts of things that made me unworthy of such a gift. He doubted his own father’s intentions. He cast me out, and now I find myself a lowly foot soldier, without any sort of security for my future.”

“God.” Lucas murmurs, the weight of Munier’s words landing upon him like stones. He feels heavy with the knowledge of them, that Demaury, who while appearing arrogant and prideful, also seemed reserved and quiet, could do such an outwardly malicious thing. “But why would he do that? What possible reason—”

“I can attribute it to nothing other than jealousy.” Munier turns to face him again, his body slumped into the wall, defeated, but his eyes still fierce and fighting. “If his father had loved me less, maybe he could have liked me more, but as it is…well, he loved me best, and so Demaury hates me. But you know, if our roles were changed? I would not treat him the same way. We are, at our centres, two very different sorts of men, I think.”

_Your quality_ , Lucas told Demaury at Champrès, standing before his desk, _is a willful propensity to mistrust everyone_.

Lucas wraps his arms around himself, cold from the falling light, from Munier’s story, from the idea of Demaury being able to turn his back on his best friend so callously. Lucas could never dream of treating Yann in the same way. He has no idea what he would do if Yann treated him in that way.

“I really didn’t think him capable of something like that.” Lucas murmurs. “It’s awful.” He raises his eyes to Munier again. “I’m so sorry. He should be…I don’t know, he should be held accountable for this. Why haven’t you accused him of anything? Publicly?”

Munier smiles now, pressing himself away from the wall and taking a step towards Lucas. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Lallemant, but I would never expose him. His father was too dear to me. I couldn’t do it.”

Lucas stares at him: at the bold, bright orange dusting his cheekbones, and the strong lines of his face, at the warmth still so palpable in his voice when he speaks of Demaury’s father. It’s that warmth, that fondness, that convinces Lucas that Munier’s graciousness is not a front, but just a shade of the man he is.

“You’re a good man,” Lucas tells him, and he really means it. “I think he would be proud of you.” He doesn’t have to say who, and Munier doesn’t have to ask.

“Thank you.” Munier takes another step towards him. “And thank you for listening to my tale of woe.” He shrugs, laughing a bit at himself. “If I didn’t bore you too greatly.”

“You didn’t.” Lucas' hands fall back to his sides. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you wish.”

Munier pauses, considering, then he reaches forward, his hand sliding over Lucas’ shoulder, brushing something away from his coat.

“There was a leaf,” Munier says with a smile, then his hand slides down Lucas’ arm to his elbow, resting there for a moment before pulling away.

For a moment, just one single moment, and Lucas stops breathing.

“Goodnight, Mr. Lallemant.” Munier says, and then he turns on his heels, and he’s gone, striding across the fields again, his head held high, the sun resting on his shoulders, his every footstep matching the fluttering beat of Lucas’ heart.

They take the carriage this time, crammed onto its narrow benches, each turn and bump in the road sending them all swaying back and forth as one body.

Alexia practically vibrates in excitement the entire way, wringing her fan between her hands and keeping her gaze locked on the corner of Champrès they can just see through the trees as they make their approach. There are white flowers braided into her hair—a gift from Manon, who had been out hunting for them earlier that day. Manon herself only has one tucked into the back of her hair, and Emma opted for none, declaring an aversion to their smell when Lucas knew full well it was only because Emma never wanted to sit in a chair for any longer than she had to.

“Just wait until you meet him, Mama,” Emma is saying now, waxing rhapsodies of Mr. Munier to the entire carriage. “He’s _so_ handsome.”

Mrs. Banet, who had been dropping questions about Mr. Munier ever since Alexia told her that he walked all of them home, smiles, raising a dainty hand to pat her hair. “Well. I’m very curious to meet this Mr. Munier.”

“I’m sure Manon can introduce you,” Emma says cheerily, which leads to a sharp elbow in the ribs from Manon, a shocked gasp from Emma, and a weary sigh from Mr. Banet.

“Spare me from hearing of the romantic escapades of officers,” he mutters to himself.

Lucas laughs distractedly, turning towards the passing landscape.

Of course Emma is teasing Manon about Mr. Munier. He’s clearly interested in her, and from what Lucas can see, with Manon’s pink cheeks and shy smile, she’s just as interested in him. It’s perfect, really. Beautiful Manon and the dashing officer. There’s no better story.

It’s not Lucas’ story, so there’s no reason for his heart to flutter whenever one of the girls mentions Munier, there’s no reason for him to fiddle with the buttons of his waistcoat nervously, still second-guessing the pale green colour even though Alexia told him, _You look lovely, Lucas. Like summer itself._

There’s no reason for any of it, but a single touch to his arm has left Lucas in a deep forest of confusion untouched by the light of reason.

But it’s fine. He’s fine. He just needs to see Munier, see him lavish attention upon Manon, and then he can begin to heal from the sting of rejection he’s stupidly caused himself, just from an inexhaustible propensity to daydream.

It’ll be fine.

Champrès Hall is already flooded with people when they arrive: women dressed in white, men with dark coattails, officers in their finest navy. The partygoers form a sea of merriment, swelling in waves from the entryway, greeting their hosts, then to the grand staircase, to the drawing room, to the ballroom, and back to the start. It’s a song louder than anything Alaoui’s small orchestra in the ballroom can play—that of pleasant chatter, delighted greetings, murmured secrets, and raucous laughter.

They walk through the open doors just as Imane and Mrs. Bakhellal do, their parties merging together into one as they join the queue to greet and be greeted by Alaoui and Lucille.

“I see we had the same idea,” Imane says with a laugh, gesturing at the flowers in Alexia and Manon’s hair. Lucas can see pale flowers pinned to the white fabric of her headscarf, delicately placed as though the small blooms are growing directly out of the thick material. The effect is ethereal.

“You look beautiful,” Manon tells her, grasping onto her hand and steering her towards Alaoui. “He’ll be speechless, I’m sure of it.”

Mrs. Bakhellal takes Lucas’ offered arm with a smile, nodding to where Alaoui is speaking with another guest, his head bobbing as he listens to them, his gaze focused.

“I suppose,” Mrs. Bakhellal says slyly, “I ought to meet this young man who’s so interested in my daughter.”

Lucas just catches the panicked look Imane sends over her shoulder when her mother’s words reach her.

“You should say something extremely embarrassing,” he advises, and while Mrs. Bakhellal laughs, Imane shoots a darker, more pointed expression directly at Lucas.

It turns out, however, that Manon was right, and between seeing Imane with her head of flowers, and Mrs. Bakhellal with her teasing, twinkling eyes, Alaoui manages only to stutter out an, “I’m so pleased you could come,” before his face begins to redden.

As amusing as the entire thing is, Lucas feels his attention drifting away, towards a group of officers gathered under the archway to another room, his eyes seeking out one particular face.

“Are you looking for someone, Mr. Lallemant?” Lucille asks sweetly.

“Oh.” Lucas blinks. “No, no. I was…admiring the décor.”

“It is beautiful,” Mrs. Bakhellal says to Alaoui, waving a hand in a gesture that encompasses the tall vases filled with fresh flowers, the elaborate chandeliers and gold candelabras bathing each room in candlelight. “You’ve made quite a home for yourself here.”

“Thank you.” Alaoui bows his head towards her. “I’m very fond of it.”

“You plan to stay here, then? In the country?” There’s something underpinning Mrs. Bakhellal’s words that makes all of them go quiet, watching the exchange with perked ears.

“Yes, I do.”

“For a young man, though, it wouldn’t be as exciting as Paris, would it?”

Alaoui shakes his head. “I never cared for the city. I find the country to be…refreshing. Inspiring. I don’t think I could ever be bored here.” His eyes drift over to Imane as he speaks, cheeks dimpling, and Imane meets his gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Well, then.” Mrs. Bakhellal says warmly, eyes dancing between the pair of them. “I look forward to seeing more of you, Mr. Alaoui.”

Lucas isn’t sure who looks more relieved at this—Imane or Alaoui.

He drifts into the ball, following the dizzying current of newcomers from room to room, seeking out familiar faces and glancing back at new, intriguing ones. He tells himself that his own restless search is for Yann, and not for a tall, striking officer.

But he finds neither of them first, instead taking a corner too sharply and nearly colliding with a young woman wearing a dress covered in a truly alarming amount of white feathers. The young woman gasps, and almost drops her wine glass, her hand going to her throat.

“Pardon me, miss.” Lucas lowers his head, stepping around her, but the woman stops him, blocking his path with her body of feathers.

“Where are you headed so quickly?” She asks Lucas, tapping a gloved finger on her chin. She’s pretty, Lucas can objectively recognize, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a high, sweet voice. “Do you have to make an escape already?”

“No. I was just, um…” Lucas tries to find something to say that isn’t, _I don’t know. I don’t know who I’m looking for. I don’t know what I’m waiting for._ “I just didn’t want to miss the next dance.”

The young woman’s eyes light up. “Really? Well, perfect! I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me to dance for _ever_!”

And without another word, she grips onto his wrist tightly, and pulls him into the throng of couples waiting for the next dance.

It’s awkward in a number of ways: how the size of the young woman’s dress, with all of its feathers, becomes an obstacle for all of the other couples involved in the dance; the fact that Lucas doesn’t know her name, has no idea who she is, but can see the stares being directed her way, can notice the whispers being exchanged behind gloved hands, and it makes the back of his neck itch. And then, it’s awkward especially because she talks the entire time, remarking on the room, the fashion of the other young ladies, the dancing abilities of the other couples. She barely stops to take a breath, moving as swiftly from one sentence to another as she does across the wooden floor, her feet light and her head held high.

He catches Imane staring at him from the other side of the floor, dancing with Alaoui and looking as though she’s holding back laughter. Lucas raises his chin and plasters on a serene smile.

Lucas is normally happy to dance at all, but he’s been so thrown off by this young woman, by her boldness and her endless talking, that he feels as though he can barely keep up. The act of dancing is more challenging than it’s ever been.

By the time it’s over, Lucas is breathing heavily, clapping for the musicians as the song comes to a close, and already eyeing a pocket in the crowd he can escape into, preferably with a very large glass of wine.

“You’re a wonderful dancer.”

The young woman is staring at him, her hands fooled under her chin and her eyelashes fluttering.

Lucas shifts on the spot. “Thank you.”

“Promise that if they play a waltz, you’ll dance with me again.”

Lucas blanches. He’s only danced a waltz once or twice, and both times were with Alexia. “I don’t know if—”

“Say you will.” The young woman whines, eyes pleading. She takes a step towards Lucas, and she smells overwhelmingly of roses. “Please.”

“Uh. Alright, fine. Sure.” It’s unlikely the band will play a waltz anyway. The dance is too new to the country, too _German_. Mrs. Banet nearly had a fit when she saw Alexia teaching herself the movements. “I will.”

The young woman beams, clapping her hands together excitedly. “Oh, perfect! Honestly, I think you must be one of the best dancers here. For men, anyway, and I do so enjoy having a partner who can keep up with me.” She gasps suddenly, her hands going to her cheeks. “Oh, but how rude I’ve been! I don’t even know your name.”

Lucas lowers into a stilted bow. “Lucas Lallemant.”

A gloved hand falls into his line of sight, the back of its palm arced towards Lucas’ mouth “Chloé Farge-Jeanson.”

There’s only a small moment of hesitation before Lucas takes the hand and quickly kisses it.

“Well, Mr. Lallemant,” she says with a bright laugh. “I have to go make my rounds, you know how it is, but rest assured, I will come find you for that second dance.” Her hand trails down the lapel of his jacket, her smile taking on a deeper, more implicit shape. And for Lucas, who has never received such attention from a woman in his entire life, the implication of it makes an unpleasant sensation churn in his gut.

It should be the exact thing that he wants. A pretty stranger, lavishing attention upon him and demanding that he dance with her, but Lucas can hear his heart thudding in his chest, and every single beat of it is saying, _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

It should be what Lucas wants, but it’s not.

He watches her leave, her feathers fluttering like the dress is about to take flight, and the sensation in his stomach worsens when he sees his aunt is also watching her leave, a familiar gleam in her eyes that Lucas has previously only seen directed at Alaoui, at the officers, at potential suitors for her daughter.

What happens next, then, shouldn’t be too much of a surprise; that the moment Chloé disappears from view, his aunt comes barrelling towards him.

“ _Lucas_.” She hisses, gripping onto his arm with one hand, her other waving her fan rapidly towards her face. “Do you know who that is?” She doesn’t give him a chance to guess. “ _That_ is Chloé Farge-Jeanson. She is the ward of Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon of the Chateau Montrose in Bourgogne!”

The name doesn’t mean a thing to Lucas. “That’s quite a mouth-full,” he says lightly.

Mrs. Banet sighs wearily. “All of that intelligence and you have no knowledge of the things that matter. Honestly.” She moves her grip up to Lucas’ shoulder, pulling him down so she can whisper to him. Her fan is moving worryingly fast. “Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon is only one of the richest women in the country! Hm. The ward must have come in order to see Mr. Alaoui. Or Mr. Demaury. You know he’s Lady Sylvie’s nephew.”

The connection between Chloé and Demaury feels at once so monumental and so insignificant that Lucas has no idea how to process it. “What,” he begins, but his aunt cuts him short.

“Lucas, if she is interested in you, then you must get close to her.”

Lucas stares at her. The sensation in his stomach is burning now, a flame at the base of his ribs stoked by anxiety. “Why would I do that?”

“Lucas, really, do I have to explain everything to you? Lady Sylvie herself has no children, and Demaury is wealthy enough that it’s likely, when she passes, a fair sum of her fortune will go to Miss Farge-Jeanson! She will be set up very handsomely by Lady Sylvie’s estate, and God knows why, but she seems to like you. Lucas, think of what an opportunity this is for us!”

Lucas ignores the _god knows why_ for a number of reasons and instead focuses on the _us._ This is an opportunity for her. For the entire family. Lucas can see the plan being hatched in his aunt’s head: Lucas moving away with Chloé, to this supposed estate, and leaving the house open, vacant of his name, his inheritance, his presence, but having enough money to support it indefinitely. It’s a delicate balance, a very specific outcome that could only be achieved though the presence of a wealthy spouse, not from Lucas running off to university and amounting a surge of debt.

It’s reality, is what it is, and Lucas hates the very idea of it.

“No.” He blurts out, and his aunt’s face falls. “I won’t.”

“Lucas.” She says sternly, her fingers digging into his shoulder. “This is not the time to become selfish. Think of your cousins. Think of how you could support them.”

“It’s not being selfish.” Lucas argues, his face growing hot. The burning in his stomach spreads up to his chest. “It’s wanting to choose my own fate.”

Mrs. Banet scoffs. “You think your cousins will ever have that luxury?”

That makes Lucas stop short.

“Women never have such a choice,” she says lowly. “Chances for income are far and few between. The choice is either not to live or to live with a man willing to support you. So please, Lucas, think of your cousins.”

She leaves him there, at the centre of the ballroom now being flooded with couples again, partners drifting around him, joint hands lifting over his head, but Lucas feels rooted to the oak floor, embarrassed and scared and helpless, and he feels just like a child again, learning what sort of place the world is, and realizing that he has no idea where he fits into it.

He steals a glass of wine from a passing tray, turns to go into the next room, and nearly walks into someone else. Only this time, it’s Yann, and Lucas has never been so happy to see someone in his entire life.

“Lucas.” Yann wraps him into a hug, rubbing a hand down Lucas’ back. The hand passes back up, and Yann must be able to feel how tense he is, because his voice is gentle when he asks: “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, you know, fine,” Lucas sighs, pulling away. “There’s this purportedly rich woman that wants to dance a waltz with me, and my aunt is desperate for me to marry her.”

Yann blinks, and then bursts into laughter. “Why am I not surprised?” He knocks their wineglasses together. “Never a dull moment with your family.” But he must see something in Lucas’ face, something nearing the truth, because his face suddenly falls. “Are you…is that not…”

“Don’t.” Lucas says quietly, not even wanting to know what Yann was going to ask. He takes a large sip of wine, swallowing around the discomfort in his chest, and after a moment, asks, “Yann, do you think there’s a chance for any of us to be happy? Truly happy?”

“Sure there is.” Yann’s brow furrows curiously. “Why are you asking?”

“No reason.” They step apart as a young woman pushes through them, an officer following closely being her, in the middle of what seems like a long, heartfelt apology. “But do you…do you ever feel trapped? By circumstances, or something else?”

Yann thinks on that for a moment. “Yes. I suppose I do. But is this about university? Or is it about—”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Lucas sighs into his glass. “I just wish we could make our own lives.”

“We can. We’re lucky that way.”

“But only within certain confines.”

“Lucas.” Yann places a hand on his shoulder. He ducks his head to meet his eyes. “If you want things to be different, I’m sure you’ll be able to find a way. You’re one of the smartest people I know. I can’t imagine you letting circumstances chain you to something you wouldn’t want.”

Lucas isn’t sure he believes it. He isn’t sure that he’s the person Yann thinks he is, so fearless and ambitious, but the conviction in his eyes and the warmth in his voice are enough for Lucas to smile, to shake off Yann’s hand and to say, “Perhaps you’re right.”

“None of this _perhaps_. We’re not bound to the bleak chaos of life, Lucas. Good things can happen for no reason at all. You’ll see.”

But the thing is, Yann must be wrong, because the bleak chaos of life is the only explanation for why Lucas’ eyes drift just over Yann’s shoulder and land on Demaury, starting at him intently from across the room. He’s standing beneath a painting of a willow tree, clutching onto an empty wine glass, and wearing his usual scowl.

“Oh for god’s _sake_ ,” Lucas groans.

Yann turns his head, snickering when he sees Demaury. “Looking as happy as usual, I see.”

“He has such a talent of just…showing up.” Lucas complains.

“To be fair,” Yann says, “we are inside of the house he’s staying in.”

“Lucas!” There’s a blur of white, an explosion of feathers, and she’s there—Chloé, gripping onto Lucas’ arms and smiling at him like they’re lovers being reunited after years apart.

Yann spits out a feather.

“They’re playing a waltz! Lucas, we have to go!”

“Oh, uh…” This was a turn of events Lucas did not see coming. “The thing is, my ankle’s a bit sore, and—”

Lucas has never met anyone before who can make their entire body pout. “But you _promised_!”

Lucas tries to send a pleading look to Yann over her head, but Yann looks just as surprised as him, clutching his glass of wine close to his chest.

“I—” He begins, and Chloé lets out a gasp.

“Oh, there’s Eliott! Hello Eliott!” Chloé calls across the room, waving madly at Demaury’s sullen, solitary corner. Her greeting causes nearly every conversation in the room to quiet, eyes drifting curiously between the two of them.

“I’m very surprised to see him, actually,” Chloé says, unaware or uncaring of the weight of the entire room’s speculation. “He usually tends to avoid balls, poor thing.” She smoothes a hand down the side of her dress, a few feathers tumbling to the floor. “He’s Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon’s nephew, did I tell you? Of course you already know about Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon.”

Lucas and Yann’s eyes meet, then immediately dart away, for fear of both of them bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

“She’s such a wonderfully generous woman, but she has no children of her own to spoil! I think that’s just heartbreaking, and I’m so grateful I came along when I did, so I could be taken in by her, and show her the very thing she had been missing.” Chloé sighs happily. “I think it’s my humble nature that she’s drawn to the most. Well, that and how personable I am. Eliott’s always been so withdrawn, you know.”

At this comment, Lucas can see Demaury’s flinch from across the room. It’s enough of a reaction to make him pause, to make his gaze linger on him, on the way his shoulders begin to slope down from their proud posture.

“But enough of that. Dancing! Come on.” And once again, Chloé is pulling him away before he can say anything else, her grip tight and unrelenting, yelling into Lucas’ ear about the waltz, about how she’s been desperate to dance one ever since she arrived.

“Lady Sylvie always compliments me on my dancing,” she tells him as they pass through the archway. “She says I have the most delicate feet she’s ever seen.”

“Right,” Lucas says, as they finally stop on the edge of a circle of partners, all taking up the first position of a waltz. There’s an anticipatory energy in the room, he notices, conversations quieting down to whispers and heads craning on necks to see the very new, very German dance.

On the other side of the circle, Lucas can see Alexia partnered with an officer, and Imane with Alaoui. Then, the couple next to him and Chloé turn, and Lucas sees Manon, dancing with another officer—a stranger. Not the one Lucas was expecting to see.

“Hello,” Manon grins when she sees him. “Are we ready, then?”

The second Lucas nods his head is the same second the music starts up, and with that, they begin: hands clasped together, backs arched elegantly, dresses brushing across the floor. It’s a beautiful dance, the music sweeping and grandly romantic, the gathered crowd letting out a collective gasp as the couples float by. It’s faster than Lucas remembers. His head swims as they turn, open flowers across the surface of a lake, and he nearly steps on Chloé’s feet, just barely managing to catch himself in time. Chloé, for her part, seems rhapsodic, giggling as they dance, clutching tightly to Lucas’ shoulder and his hand.

They turn again, and Lucas’ eyes pass through the crowd, landing on a familiar scowl, a flash of blue-grey eyes, before he’s turning again, and he sees Alaoui, staring at Imane as though she’s the very sun itself, and Imane, turning her head delicately away, her eyes shining. He turns again, and sees Manon smiling at her partner, but her gaze is far away, dancing across the heads of the crowd in a way Lucas is familiar with, knows from doing the same thing when he first arrived. Another turn, another sweep across the polished oak, and he sees blue-grey-blue again, a candlelit storm set into a face of marble, and as Chloé passes before him, her arm swanning out for a final turn, everything seems to slow to a dream-like pace. Lucas’ eyes stay locked with Demaury’s for one beat, another, then another, and just when Lucas doesn’t think he can stand the eye contact anymore, when Demaury’s gaze is too piercing, too knowing, the moment passes, the pace returning to its normal pace as Chloé’s arm sails through the air, landing once again on Lucas’ shoulder as they slow to a stop.

Around the circle, the dancers are all flushed, breathing hard, and the onlookers are cheering, a thunderous applause ringing out through the ballroom, with a few cries declaring, _Another! Another waltz!_

Lucas is not about to dance another round with Chloé, so he’s endlessly thankful when Manon breaks them apart, pulling Lucas away with a polite smile.

“I hope you don’t mind me stealing my cousin away,” she says, and Chloé tilts her head, pursing her lips.

“No, of course. You can have him.” Then she giggles, brushing her fingers across Lucas’ shoulder. “For now.”

“Well,” Manon says once they leave her behind in the wake of the waltz, the crowd still demanding another from the band, “She’s interesting, isn’t she?”

“Apparently she’s the ward of one of the richest women in the country.”

Manon laughs. “Oh, _excellent_. Mama must love that.”

“She does,” Lucas says with a groan, and Manon pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“You’ll be fine. I’ve survived many of Mama’s matchmaking attempts.”

“But…” They stop underneath the archway at the entrance of the ballroom, pushed to the side by another surge of enthusiastic dancers clambering inside. Lucas notices that Manon has lost the flower in her hair. “Suppose I do marry someone like her, someone with a home for me to move to, some with enough money for me to be able to continue supporting Beaufort. For you.” His voice is quieter to add, “For all of you.”

“Lucas,” Manon says, and she sounds like every day she has ever known him, every argument, every lesson, every bruise and cut and reassuring word. “You should marry someone you love. I know Mama would heavily disagree with me, but you should. The house will be taken care of, no matter what. If you decide to get married, or if you decide to go to Paris,” she touches a gentle hand to his cheek, “we will find a way. I might, ah, might be looking into something to help us.”

“Really?” This is the first Lucas has ever heard of Manon having any sort of plan. It makes the pressure in his chest ease a little. “What is it?”

She shakes her head. “Too early to say.” She leans back into the stone of the archway, fiddling with the ribbon at her waist.

“Right.” Lucas rolls his eyes teasingly, prodding her in the side. “You keep your secrets, Manon.”

“It’s not a _secret_. Not really.”

“Fine, then tell me something.” Lucas leans against the archway next to her, his eyes scanning across the room. “Mr. Munier didn’t come tonight, didn’t he?”

Manon’s head lowers, her gaze fixed on the ribbon sliding between her fingers. “No. Apparently he was called away on business.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Emma, of course.” Manon laughs. “She spoke to some of the officers.”

“I’m sorry, Manon,” Lucas says, feeling a phantom ache in his own body, from Manon’s melancholic tone or from his own disappointment, he can’t tell. “I know you were looking forward to seeing him.”

“No, it’s alright. We’ll see each other again.” She grins, her eyes catching on the candlelight, bright and clear. “At least, I hope we will.”

“I’m sure you will.” Lucas says, and he means it. “Then you can finally introduce him to your mother. She’s more excited about him than she was about Alaoui.”

“She’s not.” Manon says adamantly, waving a hand out in front of them. “She was obsessed with the idea of Alaoui.” Both of their gazes lock on the man as they speak of him, standing at the edge of a small circle with Imane, his eyes constantly drifting to her as she laughs with Yann and Emma. Lucas sees his hand twitch at his side, brushing against the material of Imane’s dress, then falling away again.

“Then Imane had to come and crush all of her hopes,” Lucas says sombrely.

Manon cocks her head. “But do you think he knows that she returns his affections?”

“Who, Alaoui?” Lucas stares at Manon in disbelief. “He must. It’s obvious.”

“Maybe it’s only obvious to us,” Manon says, “because we know her so well.” When Lucas just shakes his head, she waves a hand towards them. “She’s always been guarded with her feelings. We know that, and we can see the glimpses of affection coming to light, but what if Alaoui can’t? There are few of us who can be in love without proper encouragement.”

“Proper encouragement,” Lucas murmurs to himself. “What would that even look like?” He watches as Alaoui laughs at something Emma says, tilting his head back, and as Imane turns to watch him, affection painted so clearly across her face that Lucas is astonished they’re even having this conversation. “If he doesn’t know how she feels about him, then he’s a fool.”

“Well,” Manon says with a smile, the ribbon finally slipping out of her grip and pooling against her dress, “we’re all fools in love, aren’t we?”

Manon leaves to join Emma and Alexia, and Lucas finds himself left alone in a crowd of people, as jubilant and loud as they were at the start of the night, but now, as the night itself grows tired, the excitement takes on a looser turn, with the effects of wine becoming more visible. Lucas can see the beginning of it all devolving into something less refined, which is usually his favourite part of a ball, those hours in the night too late to be considered late and too early to be considered early. He thrives off of that in-between time where the rules of society are blurred and life itself barely feels real, but tonight, somehow, seeing the change come over the room exhausts him. He can think of nothing he wants more than to be away from the crowd, the music, the expectations of his aunt and the wandering hands of Chloé. He doesn’t want to see Imane and Alaoui, so perfectly infatuated, nor does he want to see Manon again, on the cusp of a thrilling potential with a dashing officer. He doesn’t even want to see Emma and Alexia, with their endless energy and endearing ridiculousness.

For a moment, he wants to be free of it all, so he leaves—briefly, he promises himself—ducking behind a curtain and finding a door that opens onto Alaoui’s terrace, empty except for the flowers and the moonlight. He shuts the glass door quietly and lets out an exhale, rolling his shoulders back and taking another step, planting both hands on his head and taking a deep inhale, letting the cool summer night cover him like a blanket, comforted by its peace.

He exhales again. Inhales.

He opens his eyes towards the sky, tilting his head back, and he lets out a little laugh at the stars when he sees them, flickering between tufts of cloud passing over.

“Mr. Lallemant.”

Lucas gasps, whirling around with his hands flying out at his sides, and he sees Demaury coming out of the shadows at the back of the terrace, his face gaunt and his posture hunched, as though he’s an autumn leaf curling in on itself.

“Mr. Demaury,” Lucas runs a hand through his hair, letting out a short laugh. “I’m sorry. You scared me.”

“Seems I keep doing that.”

“Perhaps you should begin to wear a bell. Like a cow.” Lucas says, delighting in the sour look Demaury makes sends him.

“I saw you dancing with Chloé.” Demaury says, and Lucas shrugs.

“She wouldn’t really take no for an answer. In fact, didn’t even ask.”

“Yes.” Demaury’s face is half-bathed in shadow, but Lucas can see a small quirk of his mouth. “That’s typical of her.”

“You know her well?”

“A little.”

A stilted silence falls between them, where Demaury also tilts his head back to look at the stars. Lucas watches the light play off of his profile, sharp angles and strong features, and he’s at once struck by how beautiful he is. And it’s infuriating, because Demaury is handsome, and wealthy beyond Lucas’ comprehension, but somehow he is miserable. He’s the one that stole another man’s future and still manages to make himself unhappy.

“So—” Demaury begins.

“Do you know Mr. Munier well?” Lucas asks, at the exact same moment.

Demaury pauses. His eyes noticeably darken. “I know him, yes.”

“Ah.” Lucas smiles. “Because you see, so do I.”

“I noticed.” Demaury’s voice grows harder with every word. “You and your family seem to have become acquainted with him.”

“We have,” Lucas says cheerfully. “That’s one of the reasons why I like walking so much. It’s a perfect opportunity to meet new people. To make friends.”

“Munier is fortunate.” Demaury takes a step closer, the pale light shifting across his stony expression. “He has a gift for making new friends.”

“Fortunate? Was it fortunate that he lost your friendship?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Demaury asks, and his voice, normally so toneless and proper, becomes sharp, cracking like glass underfoot.

Instead of taking warning from his voice, Lucas leans further into it.

“I’m trying to figure you out,” Lucas says, taking another step forward, and another, until he and Demaury are nearly toe to toe.

“What have you found out?” Demaury asks.

“Very little.” Lucas tips his chin back to meet his eyes. “I believe your assessment of yourself is correct. What did you say? _Guarded_.”

“Do you not think it hypocritical,” Demaury says hotly, his eyes burning in their intensity, “for you to judge in such a way, Mr. Lallemant? Are you without any of your own secrets?”

“I have nothing to hide,” Lucas says, so fiercely that he nearly believes it himself.

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

Lucas stares at him, the pressure under his ribs so tight he feels as though his lungs may collapse. It’s those eyes, just as they were during the waltz: too focused, too seeing, too _knowing_ —

“No,” Lucas chokes out. He takes a step back from Demaury.

“Mr. Lallemant—” Demaury follows him forwards, one of his hands reaching out, and it’s too much. Lucas can’t look at him anymore. He can’t be looked at by him anymore.

“No. No, I—goodnight, Mr. Demaury,” Lucas says curtly, and he takes off, back inside the glass doors, back to the hazy, candlelit ballroom, back into the first note of another waltz, another beginning in a dance that feels like it never ends, with two people locked together in unbreakable, dizzying circles, spinning and spinning around each other as the world watches on. And the music continues to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading 🌷
> 
> comments, kudos, and feedback always appreciated
> 
> on tumblr [@lepetitepeach](https://lepetitepeach.tumblr.com) if you want to talk meaningful gazes and fleeting hand touches!!


	2. the cartographer's world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we return to our hero, the morning after the night before
> 
> i hope you're all staying safe, and finding the time to take care of yourselves 🧡 i know writing a historical romance doesn't necessarily do much, but my only wish is that it's able to provide you with a little escape, even if only for a moment
> 
> now, get yourself a cup of tea and some snacks, because here we go

The day after the ball brings an emotional headache that not eggs nor a generous helping of whiskey in Lucas’ tea can cure.

He sits in silence at the dining room table, staring blankly down at his plate and trying to recall the events of the night before, but it all blurs together in his mind’s eye: the low lights, the laughter, the waltzing, Chloé, Manon, the absence of Mr. Munier, and then, his conversation with Demaury on the terrace, the most dream-like thing of all. He keeps having to grasp it tightly to ensure that it was real, but one he has it, he wishes to release it all over again.

_Are you without any of your own secrets?_

The longer Lucas thinks about it, the angrier it makes him. What does Demaury care what secrets he has?

Maybe he wants to blackmail him. Get him cast out from his home and his family just like Munier.

The notion is so horrifying that Lucas has to knock back the remainder of his whiskey-tea to drown it out, forcing it to the bottom of his cup amongst the dregs of tea leaves. It’s almost too paranoid an idea, but Lucas would rather be paranoid, and be able to protect himself from someone like Demaury—with too much money, too much power, and too little care for anyone other than himself.

He spears a potato onto his fork angrily.

_Fucking_ Demaury. He has Lucas so confused one moment, and so on edge the next.

His warring frustration and anxiety must seep out of his skin like smoke, tainting their breakfast, because Alexia frowns at him across the table, and Manon leans in close to ask, “What has you in such a storm?”

“Headache,” Lucas grunts in reply and Manon pats his back in sympathy.

On the other side of the table, Emma leans back in her chair, a cold compress resting on her forehead.

“I wish I was dead,” she says solemnly.

“Emma, please,” Mrs. Banet chides her, cracking an egg into her glass. “We must remember that the will is stronger than the mind, and the body.”

“And who’s will was it that forced you to drink so much champagne last night?” Lucas asks sweetly.

Mrs. Banet stares at Lucas like she’s considering throwing an egg at his head.

“It was a _party_ ,” she says coldly, while Alexia and Manon muffle laughter into their sleeves. “And you, Lucas Lallemant, should be concerned only with the letter you’ll be writing Miss Farge-Jeanson today.”

Lucas’ heart drops into his stomach. His fork clatters to his plate.

Alexia gasps, her hands going to her cheeks. “You’re courting someone? Is it the girl you danced with? The one with all the feathers? She’s pretty.”

“Pretty _and_ rich,” Mrs. Banet sing-songs into her glass.

Now Emma and Alexia let out identical gasps, laughing teasingly when Lucas turns a panic-stricken face onto them.

“This is exactly what we need.” Mrs. Banet says with a happy sigh. “Think of it: you will move in with her at Montrose, while still supporting this house with the money Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon will inevitably bequeath to her. Ah!” She trills, fanning herself with one hand. “I always said that you would do us good. You could not have been given that handsome face for nothing.”

Lucas’ mind is caught in a loop of the fantasy his aunt has painted—one that has progressed past _writing a letter_ in leaps and bounds, and is now set on _moving in_ —but he manages to indignantly sputter out, “What? You’ve never said that! Ever!”

“Oh Lucas.” Alexia says, patting him on the hand condescendingly. “We all think you’re very pretty too.”

“That is not—” Lucas begins in a strangled voice, but Mrs. Banet a world, leaning back in her chair with a dazed look on her face, lost in her own daydream.

“Just imagine the wedding! No doubt Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon will spare no expenses for the Farge-Jeanson girl. Oh, and I imagine they will want to have the ceremony in Bourgogne, which will not be a hardship for us, no no!” She lets out a gleeful laugh. “Mrs. Pelume will have such a _fit_ when she finds out. My own nephew, becoming lord of the Chateau de Montrose! Who would have ever thought such a thing?”

The thing is, Lucas knows how his aunt is. He knows she can get lost inside of a notion like no other. He knows this is what she always does, whenever the smallest hint of a potential match enters her awareness. He _knows_ , and he knows he shouldn’t react. He should be charmingly embarrassed, appropriately deflective, and then promptly ‘forget’ to write to Chloé every day for the next five months.

But this isn’t what he does. Lucas can feel a tide rising in him, something that feels like discomfort but weighs heavily like dread, something that pinches like anxiety but cuts like hopelessness, and the tide is rising, out of his stomach and into his lungs, his heart, surging from his chest into his throat and he’s pushing his chair back from the table and he says, a little too loudly, “I won’t.”

The girls’ laughter tapers off. There’s a noticeable twitch from Mrs. Banet’s left eye. Mr. Banet folds the top of his paper down, his face a mask of neutrality.

“Won’t what?” Mrs. Banet asks, her voice like iron.

Lucas’ eyes are fixed to the egg on his plate, to the broken yolk spilling out a deep, dark yellow onto white porcelain, like a sun bleeding into a colourless sky. “Write to her. I don’t want to…I’m not interested.”

His aunt laughs, lowering her glass to the table with just a bit too much force. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lucas.”

“I mean it.” Lucas says, lifting his eyes from the spilt yolk. The first face he sees is Alexia, who is staring at Lucas with her brows furrowed, a considering frown turning the corners of her mouth down.

“Lucas.” Mrs. Banet snaps. “Look at me.”

Slowly, he does.

“I cannot think of even a single reason why you should not write to her, why you should not pursue her. Lucas, this is an _opportunity_ for you.”

“I don’t like her,” Lucas says, the excuse sounding weak to his own ears, falling short with how little of it he can actually say. _I don’t like her in the way I should, and I never will_.

Mrs. Banet scoffs. “So?”

The way she phrases the question, the hardness of her eyes, it sends Lucas back to the ball, when she was gripping tightly to his arm and telling him that he had no choice, that this was a duty he had to perform for his family. But when Lucas tries to imagine something as simple as having dinner with Chloé, let alone being married to her, he can think of nothing but being unhappy; being so unhappy that he wants to scream, but unable to.

This is what Lucas always knew it would eventually come to, in one way or another, that he would be presented with a choice: to court a woman he’ll never love and live a half-life, or to endure the scorn and judgement that would come from never courting a woman, and trying to live with his own lack of opportunities, knocking on doors that may never open.

He always thought that when this choice would inevitably be presented to him, he would have to do what was right.

But he didn’t know, right until this moment, what the right thing really is.

“So,” he says on an exhale, planting his hands on the table, “I have no wish to pursue her. And…and how do you even know she wants me?” He asks, his voice gaining momentum. “We danced together, sure, but she expressed no desire for me to write to her. We made no plans of any sort.” He waves a hand out wildly. “At the end of the night she wasn’t even talking to me, she was talking to Yann!”

“That is _precisely_ why you have to move quickly!” Mrs. Banet cries in frustration. “Do you not understand anything, Lucas?”

“I understand.” Lucas says shortly. “I understand that this is what you want for me, that this is what you think will give me a good life, but I don’t agree with you. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care if you don’t agree with me,” Mrs. Banet bites out. “You will do this, Lucas. You must.”

“I can’t.”

Her eyes narrow into slits. “You _can’t_.”

“I just—” Lucas flounders, the truth sinking like a stone to the bottom of his soul, too heavy to even consider bringing to the surface. “I can’t.”

“You have already said that. _Why_ can’t you?”

He feels heat creep up his neck. “I _can’t_.” He wouldn’t dare say it, not ever, but he puts as much force behind the words as he can, lets more of himself show through them than he ever has before, and it’s terrifying.

He shrinks down into his chair, his hands falling to his lap.

The table is utterly silent.

Lucas and his aunt stare at each other in silence, incomprehension hanging between them—a woman who wants to see the world matched to her liking and a boy who wants to be loved only by one right person.

Her face is turning red, her cheeks puffing out as though she’s storing up a slew of curses to unleash upon Lucas, but before she can explode, Manon speaks up.

“If Lucas has no wish to pursue anything with her, then he shouldn’t.” Her eyes flick to Lucas, and there’s something warm there, something understanding. “It’s unfair for him to lead Miss Farge-Jeanson on if he has no feelings for her.”

“For God’s _sake_ ,” Mrs. Banet sputters. “Feelings can grow!”

“I agree with Manon, actually,” Alexia pipes in tracing a finger through a smear of jam on her plate. “It’s a lovely thought, but if he really has no wish to court her, then…” She shrugs.

“If you wanted me to marry someone I didn’t like at all,” Emma drawls, slumped in her chair, “I would probably run away to become a pirate.”

Lucas shifts his gaze between the three of them, a surge of gratefulness and relief rushing so swiftly though his body that he feels lightheaded with it.

Mr. Banet, who up until that moment, had been completely silent watching the scene unfold, coughs into his fist, reaches for his glass and says, “It’s alright, Lucas. We won’t force you to do anything.”

Mrs. Banet’s fiery gaze snaps to her husband. “Like _hell_ we won’t. Why are you even humouring him? This is ridiculous! He _needs_ to write to her.”

Mr. Banet takes a sip of water, seeming to consider his wife’s words. “Look at it this way, then.” His eyes drift to Lucas. “Your aunt wants to force you to write to Miss Farge-Jeanson and eventually propose marriage to her, because to do anything else would be, as she says, ridiculous, while I want you to go back into my office and finish that damn map of yours, because to force you to do anything else, now that would truly be ridiculous.”

There’s a beat of silence as his words sink in. Then Mrs. Banet lets out what could only be described as a growl, rising from her chair as though she’s going to drag Lucas to Champrès herself. But as she turns to him, Lucas let out a relieved laugh, his shoulders dropping down, his face breaking out into a wide, bright smile, and she stares, and then groans, dropping back into her chair.

“I cannot believe this family. The lot of you are more trouble than you are _worth_.” She cracks another egg into her glass. “So now we are just to…what? To hope that one day you’ll be able to make enough money to keep this house afloat, Lucas? That you’ll be able to support your cousins, because apparently _they_ aren’t to be married either?” She stirs the egg angrily with a fork. “This house is going to crumble and _you_ will be to blame for it!”

Lucas isn’t sure if she’s addressing Mr. Banet, himself, or the table at large.

But it’s Manon who says, “Really, I think society is the one we should be blaming.”

Alexia and Emma applaud. Mrs. Banet knocks back her raw egg, slams her glass down on the table, and leaves without another word.

She locks herself in her room for the rest of the day. When Lucas walks by her door that evening, he can hear muffled sobbing, and muttered curses about _headstrong children_ and _this is why they shouldn’t be allowed to read novels._

Summer wanes, a flower losing it’s last petal to the breeze. The nights grow cooler, shadows grow tall, and as Allier falls into the russet-coloured days of September, Lucas finds himself stealing away to the roof more and more often. Some nights he sketches for hours, using the light of the moon to guide his hand, and other nights he only sits, his held tilted back, his mind a ship at stormy sea with thought, tossed by waves of uncertainty and anxiety.

Mrs. Banet had, it seemed, forgiven him for his refusal to court Chloé, but she’ll make comments, here and there, about how soon Mr. Banet will die, and how then the house will be Lucas’ responsibility, and she’s sure once that happens it will fall to ruin. These comments are always met with derision from the girls, but even though Lucas knows he shouldn’t take them seriously, they stay with him. They linger like dirt caught under his fingernails, and as much as he tries to scrub them away, he can’t.

So, he sits on the roof and he stargazes. And he thinks. He tries to formulate a new plan. Maybe he could try teaching, as horrifying as the idea is, at the school he went to as a boy. Maybe he could try finding work with a publisher. Maybe they could commission him for other maps, accompanying texts or lectures or novels. Maybe, maybe. His future is a tapestry of _maybe_.

_Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could make something of my life._

_Maybe I could be myself. Maybe I could find a way to tell someone, anyone. One day._

Maybe, maybe.

He doesn’t write to Chloé, and she doesn’t write to him.

He expects that to be the last time he ever hears from her or about her, knowing that she was due to return to Bourgonge at the end of the summer, but weeks later, when the October clouds have just begun to settle, Yann appears at Beaufort’s door, wringing a handkerchief between his hands.

“Can I talk to you?” He asks Lucas earnestly.

They go to Mr. Banet’s study, where Lucas’ map is spread out across the table, the ends held down with heavy books.

Yann smiles. “I thought I saw ink stains on your fingers.”

Lucas shrugs, flicking at a compass resting near the edge of the desk. “I’m a bit stuck on something,” he admits, scratching at the back of his neck, probably smearing ink there as well. “It’s been bothering me, but I think I—”

“Chloé and I are engaged.”

Lucas blinks down at the compass, at the thick paper covered in inky constellations with hasty measurements scrawled in the margins, at the smear of his thumbprint on a torn edge. Shock stirs like a yawning lion in his chest.

“We, uh…yes. We’re getting married.”

“I know what getting engaged means,” Lucas says wryly, raising his head. “At least, in theory.” He cocks his head at Yann, watching the stiff, careful way he holds himself. “Why are you so nervous? What did you think I would say?”

Yann throws his arms out to the side, his handkerchief falling to the floor. “I don’t know! I mean, I didn’t actually think you…” He huffs, his arms dropping back to his sides. “She was interested in you at the start. She danced with _you_.”

“Yann.” Lucas laughs, shaking his head. “I never felt anything for her. I don’t think she felt anything for me, either. But…”

“But what?”

Lucas makes a face. “Well, she’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t she?”

Yann frowns, his eyebrows folding together. “No, she’s not. She’s really kind, Lucas. She’s really…she likes me, I think.”

“Lots of people like you, Yann. This isn’t unheard of.” As long as Lucas has known Yann, he’s always been the object of affection of someone’s heart.

“But I really like her. I don’t know, Lucas. There’s something about her that I can’t get enough of, and I—” Yann lets out a frustrated sound, scrubbing a hand over his hair and turning on the spot. “You know I can’t afford to go to university. My father is selling the farm and my sister has practically been engaged to Louis Cherguine since they were fifteen.” He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “I won’t be able to keep the house running, not with the way things are going. There’s nothing for me here, Lucas. No opportunities. But with her, I can travel. I can have access to things I never dreamed of. I can’t…” He shakes his head. “I can’t just pass this up. It feels like my entire life is about to change, in the best way possible.”

Lucas stands at the end of the table, his finger still resting on the compass, silent and stunned.

He licks his lips. “I had no idea your father…”

Yann waves a placating hand out to him. “He would never tell anyone. You know what he’s like. Making the ball happen that was…he wanted to do that, to give the house a proper goodbye.”

“Christ, Yann.”

“Nah, it’s alright. They want to move to the south, which is typical I suppose, but Lucas what I’m saying is, this is the best thing that could have come along for me.”

Lucas nods slowly. He can see it from Yann’s perspective so easily, the practicality of the situation, but he can also see the hope in his eyes, the excitement and optimism there, and he knows it’s more. He know, as strange as it may be to him, that he must feel something for her. He may even lover her.

He takes one step forward, then another, until he can stretch his arms out and pull Yann into a crushing hug. “I hope you like feathers, then,” he murmurs into Yann’s ear and Yann lets out a relieved laugh, wrapping his arms around Lucas’ back.

“I’m happy for you,” Lucas murmurs into Yann’s shoulder, breathing him in. Leather and grass: a smell as familiar and as comforting, as drying herbs and fresh bread. “I am, I promise.”

“Thank you.” Yann kisses him on the temple when he pulls away, planting his hands on Lucas’ shoulders. “You should come visit us, after we’re married. Chloé wrote to Lady Sylvie and apparently she’s giving her this…” He pulls a face. “Summer house.”

They both burst into laughter, leaning together and holding on tightly, two men who have been friends since they were boys, now standing on the edge of life and everything that comes after.

“ _Summer house_.” Lucas giggles. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Me neither, honestly, but we’ll have a house, so you need to come. Basile and Arthur as well.”

“Probably not all at once though. You don’t want her to realize she made a mistake too early.”

“That’s actually a fair point. But you can come first, because you’re my favourite.”

Lucas beams at him. “When do you leave?”

“A few days,” Yann says with a giddy laugh. “God. It’s all happening so quickly.”

“How did it even start? Did you go to Champrès to see her? Oh! Was Alaoui there? How is…”

His voice trails off, watching the way that Yann’s face falls when he mentions Alaoui, feeling as though all the sunshine in the room has been overtaken by a storm cloud.

“Yann. What is it?”

Yann bites down on his lip. His hand twitches like he longs for his handkerchief again, something to distract his hands with in the face of an awkward conversation. “Lucas, I thought you knew.”

Even though he can see where this is going, can feel the storm cloud looming over his shoulders, he still asks, “Knew what?”

“Well, Chloé…she’s been staying with a friend of Lady Sylvie’s in town for a week. They’ve gone back to Paris. Alaoui, Demaury, all of them. Champrès is empty.”

He tells Manon the moment Yann leaves, and they make a run for Imane’s house in the middle of a drizzle, Manon picking her skirts up and Lucas with his jacket hanging off of one arm, both of them bursting through the Bakhellal front door as one, their limbs tangled and their hair hanging in their faces. They must look like something torn from the pages of a Perrault fairy tale—some many-limbed, many-eyed creature terrorizing innocent villagers—from the way Mrs. Bakhellal lets out a cry and stumbles back into the stairwell, holding up a pile of linens like they’re a shield that can protect her.

Mr. Bakhellal cranes his neck into the hallway. “What on earth is that?”

They detangle to a discernible state, and Mrs. Bakhellal lets out a relieved gasp.

“Lucas! Manon! What are you two doing here? What’s happened?”

“Mrs. Bakhellal. Mr. Bakhellal. Where’s Imane?” Lucas pants, his jacket sliding off of his arm onto the floor. He stoops down quickly to retrieve it, smiling sheepishly at Mr. Bakhellal’s raised eyebrows.

“She’s upstairs,” Mrs. Bakhellal says slowly, “what are you—”

Manon and Lucas share a glance, and then they’re stumbling up the stairs, leaving Mrs. Bakhellal behind in the entryway, shaking her head, and Mr. Bakhellal returning to his newspaper, whispering to himself, “I don’t think I want to know.”

They find Imane seated on the windowsill in her room, staring blankly into the glass, a book open on her lap, her fingers absently toying with a gold chain around her neck.

“Imane,” Manon says, still catching her breath, and Imane startles, the book sliding from her lap and falling onto the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh.” She leans down to pick it up, her eyes low. “Hello.”

“I’m so sorry,” Manon murmurs, drifting into the room, Lucas following her slowly. She lowers herself onto the sill next to Imane, reaching for her hand and twining their fingers together. “We had no idea they were planning to leave.”

“Who, Lucille? Mr. Demaury? Sof—Mr. Alaoui?” Imane shrugs, smoothing her free hand over the cover of her book. Her tone is casual, as though she’s discussing the weather. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“But…” Manon steals a glance at Lucas, who widens his eyes, holding his hands out helplessly. “Imane, did he say anything to you? About why he’s leaving? Or how long he’ll be gone for?”

Imane rises from the windowsill abruptly, marching over to her vanity without a word. She carefully sets the book down, and pulls an opened letter out from one of the drawers.

“Lucille wrote to me.” She thrusts the letter towards Lucas. “Read it. I don’t care.”

The letter hangs between them, an entire forest of meaning folded into one small piece of paper, and Lucas hesitantly takes it, knowing that Imane could very well have hidden this for longer if she wanted, but the fact that she’s showing it to them, the fact that she’s inside her room alone, the fact that she’s speaking so plainly, all of it sounds to Lucas like she’s given up. It’s hard to wrap his head around such a thing. Imane, who wanted to be in school with the boys, who showed herself to be smarter than all of them combined. Imane, who wanted to follow her brother onto the sea. Imane, who could reach her hand into a termite-infested log and scale an ancient oak. Now she had given up on something.

He unfolds the letter to reveal Lucille’s painstakingly perfect penmanship. The flawless curves of her script make him scowl before he even begins to read.

“‘Dear Miss Bakhellal’,” he says. “‘I’m so very sorry to tell you that your standing dinner invitation will need to be rescinded, as we shall be returning to Paris for the coming season. I miss the city so dearly, and Eliott longs to see his darling sister Daphné, who I believe is becoming a vastly accomplished young lady of the most charming nature’.” Lucas rolls his eyes. “‘I believe Sofiane and I shall have many _delightful_ trips to the Chauteau d’Arbrenne over the next few months. But do please stay in touch. I must remember to give word of my address once we have settled so that you may—’ What does that even mean? Is she going to tell you where you can reach them at all?”

“It means,” Imane says calmly, leaning her hands onto the vanity, “that she intends to make a match with Mr. Alaoui and Demaury’s sister. It’s very clear.”

“What? No.” Lucas peers back down that the letter, eyes dancing across the words, _vastly accomplished young lady_.

“She wanted me to know that.”

“Because she sees you as a threat!” Lucas argues, waving the letter above his head. “Imane, come on. You don’t believe Alaoui will suddenly lose feelings for you just because a rich girl with a piano is waved in front of him.”

Imane bites down on her lip. “That’s on the assumption that he ever had feelings for me at all.” She says quietly, and any argument Lucas had dies on his tongue.

_How_ , he thinks, _is it possible for two people to be so clearly in love to everyone except themselves?_

“Oh, no. No.” Manon rises from the windowsill, stealing the letter from Lucas’ hands and reading it herself. Whatever she finds there is unsatisfying, because she huffs in annoyance, throwing the letter down on Imane’s bed. “This doesn’t mean anything, Imane.”

“It’s true.” Lucas nods. “He likes you.”

“He _loves_ you.” Manon says emphatically.

A rush of silence follows in the wake of her words.

Lucas and Manon stand there, shoulder-to-shoulder, an aggressive front of love and hope facing down a stubborn, shielded heart.

(It would be hard to find a more evenly matched battle of wills.)

“Do your parents know that he left?” Lucas asks, biting down on the skin around his thumbnail. He yanks his hand away when he realizes he’s doing it, an anxious habit he thought he left behind in his teenage years.

Imane shakes her head.

“For God’s sake Imane!” Lucas throws his hands out, nearly knocking Manon aside in the process, “Why haven’t you told them?”

“Because!” Imane takes a long step away from the vanity, her voice rising to match Lucas’. “They would tell me to go after him!”

“Then go!” Lucas and Manon cry in unison, and somehow from there it devolves into a shouting match, all of them speaking too quickly, too loudly to hear each other, all too caught up in the agonizing thrill of being scorned in love, even if only second-handedly.

Their yelling draws Mrs. Bakhellal, who comes barreling into Imane’s room, her voice rising high and clear above the others, snuffing out the fire of their argument with the kind of diffusing touch only a mother could bring to such a scene.

“What is going on in here?”

“Nothing, Mama, they were just—”

“Alaoui has gone back to Paris.” Lucas tells her, gasping when Imane lands a solid kick to his shin. “He left a week ago.”

Mrs. Bakhellal’s face falls. “Imane,” she says, voice softening. She rushes forwards, reaching for her daughter’s hands. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Imane says tersely, wrenching her hands free. “There’s no need to even discuss it.”

“The only thing we need to discuss,” Manon says, “is where she’ll be staying in Paris.”

“ _Manon_.”

“You know, your brother has returned to Paris.” Mrs. Bakhellal tilts her head thoughtfully. “You could stay with him.”

“ _Yes_!” Lucas crows, at the same time that Manon asks, “Idriss is back?”

Mrs. Bakhellal ignores both of them. She has, by that point, probably had her fill of Lallemant-Banet foolishness for an entire week.

“Imane.” She grasps onto her daughter’s hands tightly, leaving no chance for escape, for deflection. “Your father and I want you to do whatever you think is best. If you truly do not want to go, then we won’t force you. If you say you wish to forget him, then we will forget him. But darling, I must tell you—when I saw you dance with him, during that…what is it called?”

“A waltz.” Lucas supplies helpfully over her shoulder.

“When you danced the waltz together, Imane, I saw the way you looked at him.” She squeezes her hands. “I know my daughter. I know every expression you can make, but that…I’ve never seen you look that way before. Anyone that makes you feel like that, well. They’re someone to chase after, aren’t they?”

Behind her, Manon grasps onto Lucas’ elbow.

“If that doesn’t convince her,” she whispers, “then nothing will.”

Lucas grins, feeling as exhilarated as if it was he were the one chasing a trace of love across France, as if he were the one with another heart waiting for him to come and find it.

(Love turns people into comets, and turns the world into a sky.)

Mrs. Bakhellal leaves to inform her husband that their daughter is going to Paris, and Manon and Lucas begin to help Imane pack.

Lucas’ map of constellations is an imperfect creation built from one part guesswork, one part mathematics, and one part stargazing. He began it two years ago, when he was encouraged by his uncle to take the scraps of constellations he was keeping inside of an old, worn journal, and turn them into one larger work. A map of stars for the nightwalkers; a path for the dreamers.

There are other star maps, of course. Humankind have been charting them since the very beginning, using them to guide ships home and create calendars. But Lucas has only seen a few of these maps. He has the books in his uncle’s study, the few texts he can look over at the shop in Hérisson, the glimpses he was able to get of Alaoui’s collection, the Atlas he attempted to steal from primary school. Lucas has seen some of these maps, yes, but when the idea was presented to him to make his own, it overtook him completely.

_This will be my map_ , he thought. _My corner of the world. My journey across the sky._

He thought, and it’s a thought he will never reveal to anyone, that when he finished it, he could present it to some of Arthur and Basile’s instructors. He could impress the great thinkers of the universities—impress them so much that they would demand he enter into their school, with no expectation of paying. Lucas wouldn’t necessarily have the money to sustain the Banet house, but he wouldn’t have debt either. It could be a stepping stone towards a career. It could be the thing that changes his life.

It’s a fantasy that is visited less and less as Lucas grows older, as life becomes a clearly formed reality under his fingertips rather than whisper-thin platitudes passed down to him like warnings.

With every year, he lets go of the idea of university a little more, but the map of stars stays. It stays, and grows, and Lucas Lallemant continues to spend his afternoons hunched over his uncle’s desk, scrawling ink across paper, and his evenings outside, head tilted back onto his shoulders, eyes fixed to the darkened sky.

He thinks of it one night, selfishly, as he sits on the roof, his legs folded under him, his journal in his lap, and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, how he will forever mourn the fact that he was never able to take Alaoui up on on his offer to use his telescope.

It would have been nice, to be holed up somewhere with only that telescope, his notebook, and a pile of food. Maybe he’ll be given the opportunity again, if everything between Imane and Alaoui goes well. Maybe then, he will actually take advantage of that opportunity, and not pace around the study, caught in indecision. Maybe then, he won’t be scared off by the possibility of spending a day in the presence of Demaury and his too-knowing eyes.

_Maybe_ , _maybe,_ Lucas thinks, and he draws another line across the sheet in his lap, connecting one star to another like lovers.

After Imane leaves for Paris, things become quiet. The winter rain turns the world grey and blurred like a screen of silk, and the residents of Beaufort spend the days occupying themselves in books, music, and daydreams, fogging up thick glass windows with their breath and drawing indiscernible shapes in the cloudy paint.

Lucas, unable to go stargazing at night, returns to the guessing portion of his map. After testing a few calculations on planetary spatiality and getting absolutely nowhere, he turns to his notebook, filling up pages with possibilities of constellations, with equations that seem to have no end, telling a story more than they are reaching a conclusion. On some glances, the constellations in his notes look like faces, and in others, they look like figures dancing across a polished wooden floor.

Their only contact with anyone outside of themselves, and the occasional meeting with a neighbour, comes from letters.

First, a letter from Mr. Munier, detailing his time up north and lamenting at how he will be kept there for longer than he anticipated, all the way through Christmas and into the new year. Alexia and Emma swoon dramatically onto the drawing room couch while Manon clutches the folded letter to her chest with a smile, looking every bit the part of the blushing, beautiful young woman receiving a letter from her distant sweetheart.

Lucas watches her, and he can feel it, how the weeds of jealousy that grew within his chest have bloomed into something else, something lighter and more generous than envy, with room for affection when faced with the reality of a desire for something so entirely out of reach; something that was born from a single moment, that in all likeliness was not even a moment, only perceived that way by one foolish soft-hard heart.

A second letter comes, blown in with the harsh February winds. In it, Imane provides a pithy account of her time in Paris with her brother. She writes that Idriss’ apartment is far nicer than she expected it would be, that she and Idriss were able to call on Basile and Arthur and have dinner with them, that she still hasn’t heard word from Lucille, and that she hasn’t been able to see Alaoui.

It’s a letter that makes all of them—Manon, Lucas, Emma, Alexia—exchange worried glances overtop of Imane’s strong, concise script.

The third letter comes just when the furrowed brow of March is kissed by the gentle lips of April, when windows can be opened wide for more than an hour and the dust dances in pale sunlight. It’s addressed to Lucas, a familiar penmanship inviting him to say with a newly married friend and his wife in their charming, spacious _summer house_.

Before Lucas even makes it to the signed, _See you soon, Yann_ , he’s sprinting up the stairs, tearing into Manon’s room to steal one of her trunks.

He leaves only minutes after his reply does.

Yann knows him too well. He must have guessed that Lucas would waste no time to travel anywhere that was new, anywhere that wasn’t the drawing room and his bedroom, because he’s waiting for Lucas outside of his house when his carriage arrives. The first thing Lucas notices is the bright yellow coat he’s wearing, beautifully cut and expensive-looking, which must be Chloé’s influence, but then he notices his smile, can see the way his eyes are practically twinkling even from so far away.

He looks happy. He looks. Well, he looks _in love_.

Yann crushes Lucas into a hug as soon as he’s within reach, both of them laughing when they stumble off of Yann’s front walk, their heels sinking into wet, muddy grass.

“What is this?” Lucas teases, pulling away so he can tug at the lapel of Yann’s coat. The material feels thick and soft under his fingers. Definitely expensive.

“You like it? I chose it myself, but, you know,” Yann lowers his voice dramatically. “Chloé paid for it.”

“Oh? That’s surprising, given how independently wealthy you are.”

Yann knocks him over the head, cackling, and picks up Lucas’ trunk for him, cocking his head towards the house. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

“Ah.” Lucas’ eyes widen as they drift to the large windows, the beautifully painted doors, the meticulously kept grounds. “The summer house.” It’s larger than Beaufort. “You know I expected it to be bigger.” He can’t believe Lady Sylvie just had a spare house of that size to give away. “I can’t believe she would treat you so poorly.”

“Sure, you’re making jokes now, but just wait until you feel how comfortable the bed in your room is.”

“I’ve never made a joke in my _life_ , Yann Cazas.”

Chloé comes bounding out of the front door to meet them, her bright pink skirts fluttering around her like bird wings, catching on the breeze, and just like that she’s taking flight, leaping straight at Lucas and wrapping her arms around his neck, letting out an excited squeal.

“You’ve finally come!”  
Lucas staggers back with the force of her weight, seeing just over her shoulder how Yann tilts his head bad to laugh, and he’s reminded all over again of the ball, of having Chloé beg him to dance while Yann watched on with amusement. It’s so very strange, that from that moment they’ve wound up in this one, a smilier scene with an entirely different arrangement of players, but at the same time it feels inevitable. Maybe this was the only ending that ever really made sense.

“Chloé,” Lucas grunts as her feet touch back to the ground. His lungs feel flattened from the impact, struggling for air when Chloé pulls him into another hug.

“Did you see Yann’s new coat? Doesn’t he look beautiful?” She shoots Yann a smile over her shoulder. “Mind you, he always does.”

“You flatter me,” Yann drawls.

“Mhm.” Chloé keeps an arm around Lucas’s shoulders, turning them together to face him. “And you love it.”

Yann’s smile widens. “I do.”

“Oh, no.” Lucas shakes off Chloé’s arm, striding past the pair of them towards the door. “If you two are going to flirt in front of me the entire time, then I will at least have food. And a bath.”

Chloé smiles, clapping her hands together. “Well you’re in luck, Lucas, because tonight we’ve been invited to dine with Lady Sylvie herself.”

There’s a pause.

Lucas glances at Yann. “Am I to be excited about this?” He asks at length.

Yann laughs, following Lucas to the door with his trunk still tucked under his arm. “You’ll see,” he says as he brushes by him. “The food is always incredible.”

“Oh.” Lucas stomachs growls in reply and he grins, patting it softly. “Well then I suppose I am excited.”

Chloé is the one who gives him a tour of the house, talking at length about how they furnished it, how they chose what art would go on the walls, how they decided on which china to keep in the dining room.

“Lady Sylvie had this place already decorated, of course, and she has impeccable taste but we wanted to make it our own, you see? Neither of us have ever had our own house before, and so we wanted to take our time.” She lets out a light laugh, leading Lucas into the parlour from the dining room. “We actually left Monaco early to come back and begin working on it. By that point I’d already found the most darling furnishings as well, and I was desperate to bring them home.” She gestures at two armchairs sitting proudly before them, covered in a bright blue fabric with birds stitched across its surface, stuck in flight. “I fell in love with these the moment I saw them. And they match the carpet so well!” The carpet. An even bolder, deeper blue, covered with outlines of wonky, oversized flowers.

“Uh.” Lucas squints down at the carpet. “Sure.”

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to pretend to like it,” Chloé says. “Yann doesn’t either. But this was our compromise: I get to have this room, to read or to entertain, and he gets the garden.”

“The garden?” Lucas cranes his neck to see through the double doors in the parlour, to a spot of thick green grass bordered by flowers that are already blooming, glimpses of purple and yellow amongst the dirt.

“He started work on it the moment we came back. But you must know how he loves to be outside, and he’s also put chairs and a table out there for when the nights become warm.” She smiles fondly as she speaks, playing absently with her wedding ring, spinning it around on her finger. “Seems to be obsessed with the idea of watching sunsets together.”

Of all people, Lucas never expected to see Yann so loved by someone who, when Lucas first met her, was essentially a waltzing chicken, but there they are, standing on one of the ugliest carpets Lucas has ever seen, and he’s watching as Chloé goes soft around the eyes while she thinks about the man currently making his way back down the stairs. Lucas’ best friend.

Lucas reaches out to touch her sleeve, startling her out of her reverie.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For letting me stay here.” He sees Yann come into the room out of the corner of his eye and more loudly, he says, “Thank you for taking him off my hands.”

Chloé turns, following his line of sight, and she lets out a sigh, crossing her arms. “It wasn’t a choice easily made. But, you know, his father practically begged me to marry him.”

Yann bursts into laughter. “He did _not_. You were the one begging to marry _me_.”

Chloé smiles sweetly at him. “Whatever you say, darling husband.” Her eyes drift past Yann to the grandfather clock tucked in a corner of the room, and she gasps. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was that late!” She rushes towards the staircase, yelling over her shoulder, “Come on! Lady Sylvie detests lateness and we still need to get dressed.”

Lucas glances down at himself. “I am dressed.”

Chloé stops on the first step, sending him a look that would wither the blooming flowers in Yann’s garden. “Lucas, please. You can’t see Lady Sylvie wearing _that_. Borrow something from Yann.”

Yann makes a face. “Except anything of mine Lucas borrows will be too big.”

“Well,” Lucas says with a beatific smile, “I could always go naked, then.”

“ _Yann_ , get him something to _wear_.”

Lucas continues smiling at Yann, waiting until Chloé has disappeared up the stairs before he raises his hand to make a very, very rude gesture.

In the end, Lucas doesn’t have to borrow anything from Yann. He brought along the green waistcoat from the ball, which Chloé deems “acceptable” when worn with his black jacket.

“It will do.” She says with a sigh. “You’re lucky you’re so handsome, you know.”

They walk to Montrose, cutting across the stretch of thick green grass that leads away from their house at a clipped pace set by Chloé, who is determined for them to arrive five minutes early, as Lady Sylvie apparently views being on time as being late. The walk surprises Lucas, who was under the impression that once people reached a certain level of wealth, they took four-horse drawn carriages everywhere they went.

“But she’s not ten minutes away!” Chloé says, pointing towards a line of thick oak trees, where Lucas can just see a spire break through a gap in the heavy branches. “It’s wonderful to be so close to Lady Sylvie. We dine with her all the time!”

“All. The. Time.” Yann mutters, and Lucas has to hide a laugh within a delicate cough.

As they approach Montrose, the shape of the house become clearer: a sprawling baroque manor with looming spires, so large and imposing that Lucas can’t control how his mouth drops open at the sight.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Chloé calls back to him. “One of the largest estates in this part of France, and one of the most expensive. The windows alone cost _thousands_.”

“I can only imagine,” Lucas mutters. The low sun covers the front of Montrose as they draw near it, turning every window into a pool of liquid gold. There’s not a single part of the house that doesn’t look impeccably crafted. It’s breathtaking and ridiculous. Lucas doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or awed.

“Come on!” Chloé calls. “We’re nearly there!”

The inside of the house is just as ostentatious as the outside. As they’re led through the endless hallways by a stone-faced butler, Lucas thinks he can see where Chloé got her affinity for ugly carpets from. No matter where his eye lands inside of the Chateau de Montrose, there is _something_ there to greet him. Something gaudy, something ancient-looking, something jewelled or patterned or covered in feathers. Each room is like its own nightmare of colour. It’s hilariously fascinating.

They walk in silence through Lady Sylvie’s rooms: Chloé and Yann in front, and Lucas trailing behind them, grateful to be at the back of the party so no one notices when he’s startled by an alarmingly life-like statue of a tiger.

The butler eventually leads them to a parlour, though it’s likely the largest parlour Lucas has ever seen in hislife, wide and open with a deep stone fireplace and tall potted plants placed in every corner. Chloé rushes ahead of them into the room, dropping into a low curtsey in front of a red velvet settee, and the elegant woman sitting atop of it.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Chloé raises her eyes to Lucas and Yann, jerking her head sharply for them to approach.

Lucas has not spent a great deal of time imagining what Lady Sylvie would be like. The idea of her being a real, physical person who inhabits a body and breathes air and requires water was lost to him in the midst of the overwhelming descriptions of her wealth and her estate. Lady Sylvie was less a person to him than a character from a story, a name people liked to bring up in conversation just to get a reaction.

The flesh and bones reality of her, now that Lucas is being faced with it, is exactly what he would have expected, if he had been expecting anything at all.

She’s an elegant woman, with narrow eyes and high cheekbones, her grey hair twisted into an elaborate knot at the back of her head. Her hands are folded daintily in her lap, but her posture is rigid, her dark eyes sharp as she takes Lucas in, staring him down from the top of a thin, long nose. She has the look of an aristocrat, a look that tells Lucas she must have a long history of speaking her opinion without ever being contradicted, of judging everyone around her based entirely on the first impression they give her.

It makes Lucas want to meet her gaze straight on rather than cower away from it. He bows before her, then smiles pleasantly, waiting for her to speak.

She tilts her chin back, inspecting him. “You’re Lucas Lallemant, then are you? The one who almost married my dear Chloé?”

_Almost_ , he thinks, _is a bit of a strong word_.

“We became acquainted at a ball,” Lucas says easily. “But it was never meant to last. Yann is a far better dancer than I, you see.”

Chloé slides her hand into Yann’s, grinning at him.

Lady Sylvie looks unimpressed, but before she can say anything else, there’s the sound of door opening, and Chloé, Yann, and Lucas all turn as one to see Mr. Demaury entering the room from the other side. It takes him a moment, but when he notices them, his eyes widen, and he stops, one hand on the door, one foot placed awkwardly far in front of the other. He looks like an animal that’s been caught stealing food, and Lucas is biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing because the image is preposterous, and because _of course_ Demaury’s here. He has an inane talent of showing up wherever Lucas is least expecting it.

“Eliott!” Chloé cries happily, her hands flying up to her chest. “Oh what _luck_! I had no idea you were visiting!”

Her voice propels Demuary back into movement, and he lets the door close behind him, taking a few measured strides across the room until he’s close enough to shake Yann’s hand, and to be pulled into a hug by Chloé. His eyes meet Lucas’ over her shoulder, just as piercing and hard to escape as they always are, and Lucas fights the urge to fidget, aware of Lady Sylvie’s own curious gaze like a physical weight on his shoulders.

“Mr. Lallemant.” Demaury says politely once Chloé has released him. He bows shallowly. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Mr. Demaury. Pleasure’s all mine.”

“You know my nephew?” Lady Sylvie asks, and their eyes meet again, only for a moment, before Lucas turns back to her with a serene smile.

“Yes, I know him.”

Yann was right about dinner.

Lucas is seated at the table for only minutes before the most incredible steak dish he’s ever seen in his entire life is placed before him: a thick cut, dripping in gravy, with a pile of vegetables on the side. It smells so good that he thinks he might cry.

At the head of the table, Lady Catherine, summons a servant to her. “Claude? Could you get a fish course, please? I don’t want this.”

Lucas has to hold himself back from making a comment at that, like asking Lady Sylvie if she wouldn’t mind him having her rejected dish, or perhaps wondering aloud if Lady Sylvie does this every night, if whatever her staff prepares for her is never as satisfying as what she could readily request herself. But he can only imagine the fallout that would come from him saying such a thing, and he holds his tongue, unfolding a napkin onto his lap and focusing on his food.

“Is your family well, Mr. Lallemant?”

Lucas’ head snaps up at the question, whirling towards Demaury, who’s staring down at his own plate as though he can read something in the trails of gravy.

“They are.” Lucas says after a moment. He shifts in his chair to face him. “Actually, my good friend Miss Bakhellal has been visiting her brother in Paris for the last few months. Did you see her while you were there?”

Demaury shakes his head. “I did not have the pleasure.”

“Really?”

“What about you, Mr. Lallemant?” Lady Sylvie asks loudly, and Lucas reluctantly shifts his gaze to her, a dozen more questions for Demaury melting on the back of his tongue.

Lucas swallows them back. “Yes madame?” He asks politely, watching as a servant places a fresh dish of fish in front of her. She doesn’t even look at it.

“Chloé tells me you live with your aunt and uncle.”

“Uh, yes.” Lucas straightens up in his seat. “Since I was very young.”

“No parents?”

“Not since I was very young.”

“And no inheritance?”

Her line of questioning is blunt, invasive, and Lucas bristles, clenching his hands together underneath the table.

“The house is my inheritance.”

“The house you currently live in?”

“That’s correct.”

“But nothing else? What is it that your father did?”

Lucas feels his cheeks warm. “He was a poet. Both of them were writers.”

“Ah.” Lady Sylvie gives a small laugh. “That explains it, then. Little fortune to be found there.”

“Little fortune, yes,” Lucas replies before he can stop himself, “but don’t you think the contribution of an artist is greater to the world than something as lifeless as in inheritance?”

Lady Sylvie squints at him. “ _Lifeless_.”

“An inheritance does nothing other than be passed, or be spent. It may lie dormant for years without being relevant, and even then its relevancy is only that to a few chosen people. Art is not so selective, and it is not so passive. In order to be relevant to anyone, it must be constantly living and breathing.”

“Upon my word.” Lady Sylvie murmurs. Lucas can practically feel the glare from Chloé across the table but he doesn’t give in to it, can’t give in to it when Lady Sylvie wants to insult the memory of his parents and as a direct result of that, Lucas himself. He would rather lose her favour than return home knowing he did not try to speak up for his parents, even if it means he has to try and defend poetry, something he’s never understood in his entire life.

He reaches for his fork, thinking the conversation has been effectively put to rest, when Lady Sylvie speaks once again.

“You must be an artist yourself, then, Mr. Lallemant, to defend it so,” she wrinkles her nose, “passionately.”

“He’s a scientist.” Demaury interjects, making everyone at the table, even the staff watching on, all stare at him in confusion. Demaury, who before now had quietly been watching his meal, is now oscillating his between staring at Lady Sylvie and Lucas. “He studies the stars.”

If the evening was not already strange, then having Demaury speak up for him, realizing that Demaury heard the few times he mentioned telescopes and stars to Alaoui and remembered them, makes it all the more so. Lucas stares at the side of Demaury’s face, unable to decide if he feels flattered by the support, or frustrated by the fact that Demaury thought he had to speak for him, that Lucas would not be able to handle himself against the indomitable Lady Sylvie.

“A man of science,” she says. “Well.” She peers at Demaury, then at Lucas once again. After another moment, she picks up her fork. “How very interesting.”

It’s a symbol to all of them that the conversation is over, all of them diving into their plates in silence, with Lucas only chancing a small glance at Demaury out of the corner of his eye, and quickly looking away when Demaury glances back.

After dinner they move to another parlour, one coloured in deep, rich greens and golds, with bird cages lining the windows and even more plants crammed along the walls. Lucas has the distinct feeling of being somewhere in the wild, trapped in the heart of one of the far-off jungles he’s only ever read about before, and the comparison really does fit, he thinks, when Lady Sylvie breaks from her conversation with Chloé and turns to him with a lion’s smile.

Lucas returns it, bared teeth for bared teeth.

“Mr. Lallemant, if you would indulge us?” She waves a hand towards the stunning chestnut piano on the far side of the room, open and waiting, polished to perfection. “If we’re going to dine together, then you should know that music is my delight. I would have been a great proficient, had I learned, but I must rely on the talents of others, and Miss Farge-Jeanson is not so gifted, as you may know.”

Chloé’s cheeks turn pink, but she smiles as Yann smoothes a hand down her back, leaning into his touch.

Lucas gives a small laugh. “You are under the assumption, then, that I would play in a way that would delight you.”

Lady Sylvie hums, raising a severely arched eyebrow. “Is that not the case? Being the son of two artists, I would think you would have some sort of inclination.”

Lucas clasps his hands behind his back, sinking his nails into the flesh of his palms. “I am afraid I am out of practice, but I have a cousin who is as fond of music as you are. She is our piano’s master.” It’s true, Lucas hasn’t practiced in months. It’s not expected of him like it is of his cousins. For men, it is enough of an accomplishment to be able to carry out a conversation and dance decently, not to draw, dance, sing, play music, and learn multiple languages.

When he was a boy, Lucas was constantly playing the piano. He would make up songs and perform them for his parents, then did the same thing for Alexia, Emma, and Manon when he first arrived at Beaufort, much to their delight. Only, as he’s grown older, it’s become less of a passion and more of a memento. He does not practice anymore, no, but his mother taught him to play, and so the idea of piano playing itself is a happy memory.

He’s not about to put that on display for someone like Lady Sylvie.

“Hm.” She narrows her eyes at him, clicking her tongue against her teeth in a way that’s startlingly undignified when compared with the rest of her. “Not the master of your own house, then?”

“It’s not my house.” The words tumble out before Lucas can catch them, a reflexive reply cultivated from years of feeling guilty for his own inheritance, and angered by his own responsibilities. “It is the Banet’s house, madam, in design and in spirit.”

“You have so very little for an inheritance, Mr. Lallemant, why deny this?”

“Perhaps I do not possess the desire to _own_ so strongly as others do.”

“I’ll play.” Demaury blurts out from his spot near the birdcages. Every head swivels towards him and he smoothes his hands down his jacket, nodding towards the piano. “I’ll play, if Mr. Lallemant cannot.”

Lucas blinks at him, at his easy posture, his neutral expression, his silhouette outlined in burning heat by the setting sun—a golden man surrounded by golden cages.

Lucas blinks again. Like _hell_ is that going to happen.

He stands from his armchair without a word, marching towards the piano and internally cursing Demaury and his innate need to insert himself into conversation, to constantly make Lucas seem like an incompetent country fool.

It’s not until Lucas sits himself at the bench, the silence in the room heavy and expectant, his hands poised over the keys, that he realizes he has no idea what to play. He scans his eyes across the room, and sees Lady Sylvie watching him imperiously, Chloé smiling, Yann nodding encouragingly, and Demaury, still standing by the birdcages, watching him with an unreadable expression.

Lucas takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders back, and begins to play. He doesn’t know what song his hands decide on until the music reaches his ears, a Beethoven that Alexia favours, one that she plays so often Lucas knows it by heart, except playing it becomes a little more difficult. His rendition is slower than he remembers the original piece being, and he thinks he might be in the wrong key, but it’s enough for Lady Sylvie to finally turn away from him and return to her conversation with Chloé, speaking loudly so she can be heard over Lucas’ playing.

Lucas lets himself laugh, leaning into the piano as his hands dance across its keys. It’s a nice reprieve, to be able to sit by himself and tune out the conversation, but he’s not sure how long he’ll have to keep playing for, whether there will be a point where Lady Sylvie will be satisfied and let him disappear into the wallpaper, or if Lucas will really need to begin making up something to play on the spot. There are only so many times he can attempt Beethoven.

He starts the song again, changing key, and as he does, he can see someone moving towards him out of the corner of his eye. Someone tall and quiet, with he posture of a toy solider. Lucas’ fingers slip on a key, breaking the flow of the song apart and he huffs, annoyed.

“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Demaury?” Lucas asks lightly, eyes focused on his hands as they clumsily, slowly find the melody again.

Demaury stops at the edge of the piano. “Not at all.” He shifts on the spot, placing his hands on the edge of the piano then retracting them immediately. It’s distracting, how he always needs to make himself known, somehow, even when he’s standing still. Lucas feels his shoulders tensing with it, the sheer palpability of Demaury’s presence.

“You play quite well.” Demaury says after another moment.

“Oh.” Lucas raises his eyebrows. “ _Quite well_. Thank you, Mr. Demaury, I do believe that’s the highest compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“I mean it.”

Lucas has to force himself not to roll his eyes. “And I said thank you.”

They fall silent as Lucas continues to play, drifting away from Beethoven now into something lighter, quicker, his fingers dancing across the keys with a mind of their own. He samples notes from songs he hasn’t played in years, drifting from a sonata to a lullaby and finally, to a slow, clumsy version of a waltz.

“I remember seeing this dance,” Demaury says softly, barely audible over the music. “It was so beautiful.”

Lucas tries to recall the waltz that was played at Champrés, but the memory is clouded, made imperfect and inaccurate by time and the effects of alcohol. What he remembers the most are Imane and Alaoui sweeping across the floor, and Demaury’s eyes peering through the crowd. “Yet you still refused to dance with anyone.”

“There was no one I could ask who would say yes.”

At this, Lucas stops playing, sitting back on the bench and turning towards him. “Are you serious? There were at least a few young women there who were desperate to dance and did not have partners. If you had only taken the time to ask them, you know, to talk to them, any one of them would have said yes.” _No one would refuse you_ , he thinks sourly.

“I…” Demaury pauses, glancing down at the piano, so thoroughly polished that a blurred reflection of himself stares back. “I’m not particularly skilled at that.”

“At what? Talking or dancing?”

Demaury smiles, only a little, tracing a finger along the edge of the piano. “At either.”

At this, Lucas does roll his eyes, turning back towards the piano, flexing his hands before placing them on the keys again. “I wasn’t always skilled at this.” He returns to the start of his not-quite-waltz, slowing the tempo even more so it becomes something different—a waltz meant to be danced under moonlight rather than beneath chandeliers, performed alone rather than before a crowd.

Lucas clears his throat. “I only know how to play because I’ve practiced. You could do the same.”

“It’s an easier thing to practice than talking.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but we are talking right now. You could consider this practice.”

Lady Sylvie calls across the room, summoning Demaury back to their cluster of chairs, and he lets out a sigh, tapping one finger against the edge of the piano.

“This is different,” Demaury says quietly, so quietly that Lucas doesn’t even hear him, too preoccupied with returning to his not-quite-waltz, nodding his head along with the rhythm. He misses it, just as he misses the way Demaury hesitates, his eyes travelling from Lucas’ face, to his neck, down to his hands, then back to his face, lingering there only for a breath before he’s called again, and he leaves, the heavy press of keys following him all the way across the room.

Evening rolls into twilight, and Lady Sylvie finally permits them able to leave.

“I’m tired,” she declares, standing from her chair. It’s the sign to everyone else in the room—the guests, the staff, the birds in cages—that the evening is over, and as tea cups are cleared and curtains are closed, Lady Sylvie bids them goodbye.

She leaves Lucas with an, “It was most interesting to meet you, Mr. Lallemant,” which Lucas could interpret in any number of ways, though he can only imagine that she would mean it in the least flattering way possible. He gives her the most sincere smile he can muster in return, telling her that dining her house was an experience he could never have imagined, and he doesn’t miss it when Yann coughs into his sleeve to hide a laugh.

He’s not expecting it when Demaury offers to walk them to the door.

“Please,” he says, gesturing towards the long hallway they first entered through. Chloé happily goes first, curtsying to Demaury and pulling Yann along by the hand, the sound of her tinkling laugher fading as she disappears through the doorway. Lucas eyes Demaury curiously, only able to guess at what Demaury’s sudden motivation to play the good host must be, if he wants to impress them or suddenly feels the need to make up for previous rudeness. Lucas hopes its the latter but think it’s more likely to be the former. Based on Munier’s story, Demaury doesn’t seem to be the type of person who apologizes for his actions.

As Lucas passes through the door, Demaury shifts, and their arms brush together briefly, the rough scratch of wool against wool, but it’s a moment of contact that sinks it’s teeth into Lucas’ skin, and he jerks himself away, following after Yann and Chloé with his cheeks reddening.

Demaury, in turn, follows him, and Lucas can feel his gaze heavy on the back of his neck. It itches, makes him watch to scratch, to run a hand through his hair, to turn around and tell Demaury to just stop. _Stop staring at me like you know me. Leave me alone. I don’t know what you want, if you’re planning to blackmail me or to ruin me, but I can’t think about anything else when—_

He passes through Lady Sylvie’s outlandishly decorated rooms without really seeing them, his mind caught in a fox’s trap of _do you want to ruin me_ and the back of his neck burning like it’s being branded.

By the time he arrives at the entryway, with Yann and Chloé already waiting, their coats buttoned and Chloé’s bonnet tied up neatly, he’s exhausted from his own thoughts, from walking a short distance with such a heavy shadow, and he’s ready to leave. He’s ready to leave and to never see him again.

They slip out into the night, and the cool wind soothing against Lucas’ heated skin, the dark sky a welcome cloak around his shoulders. He tilts his head back without even consciously making the decision to do it, eyes to the heavens and lungs filling with stars on each inhale. It’s peaceful, and he revels in it, feels himself unspooling like a tightly wound thread, no longer having to be on guard, or to be the cleverest person in the room just so he can survive.

“I—” Demaury begins, and all three of them turn back towards him expectantly, but he falls silent, his hand clenched tightly against the door. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again.

Yann cocks his head at him. “Are you alright, Demaury?”

His words startle Demaury of whatever trance he’d fallen into and he nods, his hand falling away to his side. “Have a…pleasant night,” he says, and the door slams closed, leaving the three of them in the thick silence of night, only broken up only by the high, strong wind in the trees, their branches swaying against the sky like they’re dancing.

“Strange,” is all Yann says, and then he shrugs, offering an arm out to Chloé and steering them back towards their home, across the dampening grass and through the thick line of trees.

Lucas trails behind them, diverting his attention between following Yann’s path and peering up at the stars. He tries to lose himself a little to the wide and colourless sky, willing himself to think about anything else apart from Demaury. It’s infuriating, the way he can burrow into Lucas’ thoughts and linger there. No matter what Lucas tries to tell himself, he’s still holding onto the worry that somehow, _somehow_ , Demaury just looks at him and knows.

He doesn’t know how that’s possible. He tries to be careful, to not let any aspect of his outward personality reveal anything about his heart, and the unlucky direction in which it turns. But perhaps he’s not as good as hiding as he believes. Perhaps everyone knows and no one speaks of it. Perhaps no one knows but everyone suspects.

“Lucas.”

Chloé has drifted back towards him, reaching out and laying her hand on his elbow, drawing her shawl tightly closed around her shoulders.

“Well, what did you think?” She asks with a smile. “Is Montrose not as spectacular as I said it would be?”

“It is…exactly as you described it.” Lucas says at length, craning his neck back for one last glance at the imposing facade, the spires that pierce the blanket of stars above them. He thinks he can see one flickering light in a window, a shadow passing just behind it. “Lady Sylvie as well.”

“Isn’t she just fantastic?” Chloé sighs happily. “No woman exists like her in the world.”

“I think you might be right there.”

After a moment, she adds, “I wasn’t expecting to see Eliott, though.”

At this, Lucas’ head turns back towards her. “No? Where was he supposed to be?”

“I thought he was still in Paris.” Chloé lowers her voice. “Lucas, I…I heard something. From Lady Sylvie.”

Her tone is hesitant, worried, and it makes something cold and dreading slide down Lucas’ spine. “What?”

“She said that when he first arrived, Demaury told her he was in Paris because he was helping a friend. Specifically helping a friend escape an engagement that would lead to an imprudent marriage.”

“An engagement?” The phantom sensation on his spine grows colder, sinks deeper. “Who was the friend?”

In the dim of the night, he can just make out how Chloé shakes her head. “No names were given. Nothing to indicate that it might be—well, that it might be anyone.”

_Imane_ , Lucas thinks. He sees her face in his mind, cool and resigned, a letter being handed over by a steady hand. “Did he—did Demaury give any reason for this interference?”

“No, I—”

“A disparity of circumstances?” Lucas presses.

“No, it wasn’t that. Apparently the woman involved was thought to be indifferent.”

“So he _separated_ them?” Lucas says incredulously, and Chloé shushes him, gripping onto his arm.

“Lucas, please. I’m sorry, I just…I thought you’d ought to hear it as well.”

“You’re right.” Lucas says lowly. “That is something I ought to hear.”

Lucas’ mind works rapidly through all the implications of Chloé’s words, how Demaury’s pride would have enabled him to insert himself in his friend’s engagement, how’s really true that he and Lucille must want Alaoui to marry Demaury’s sister, how Imane must have been seen as nothing more than an inconvenience, a distraction for Alaoui before they moved away and moved on. It feels as though Lucas’ heart has dropped completely out of his body, leaving behind only empty, hollow space with nothing to fill it, nothing but a sudden, clear rush of anger.

And in that clarity, two things at once became obvious: that Munier was right, and Demaury is even more of a selfish and deceitful person than Lucas himself had known; and that he finally has a name for the pressure underneath his ribs and the inferno under his skin, a word for what he’s been feeling ever since he first met Demaury’s eyes across the room—

—and it’s hate.

Lucas doesn’t sleep that night.

His bed feels too comfortable, the sheets too soft and warm against his overheated skin. He tries to sleep in the armchair, but cannot settle on a position that feels natural. He tries to watch the stars, but thick clouds roll in sometime past midnight, the air growing humid and heavy with the implication of rain. It’s appropriate though, a storm identical to the one building inside of Lucas, seeping out from his skin, making the air in his room taste like lightning.

Now that he’s thought the word, he can’t stop thinking it: _hate. I hate him. I hate Eliott Demaury._ His anger drives him to pace, to draft half a dozen letters—to Imane, to Demaury, to Alaoui—and scrap them all. He feels restless under the thrall of it, the thunder in his veins too powerful to be contained, too much for him to sit quietly and bear.

The storm outside breaks the same moment Lucas does, in the early hours of the morning. He slips into a threadbare, stained coat left by the door—one of Yann’s old ones, a relic left from another life—and steps out into the pouring rain.

He has no destination in mind, is seeking to escape himself and his restless mind as much as he’s escaping the house. He’s drenched immediately, the cold water seeping through the holes in Yann’s coat and soaking his hair, thick drops of it rolling into his eyes, blinding him. He stumbles through the dark, cursing when he slips in the wet grass, drops of mud catching on his hands, landing on his cheek. He must look like a wild thing when he breaks out of the line of trees onto a beautifully even field, limbs heavy and head a mess.

Around him, the world changes, indigo and black shifting to deep grey. Behind the clouds, the sun might be rising, but Lucas barely registers the time. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out in the rain, how the hours of the dawn have managed to slip through his muddied fingers so easily, but it grows lighter still, shapes that were indiscernible to him now making themselves known: tall, thick trees coloured lushly green by the rain, waking birds nestled into branches, peering at him curiously, and just before him, an empty stone pavilion.

Lucas hides himself under the pavilion’s cover, shaking out his stiff limbs and catching his breath. He leans into one of the pillars, pressing his face into cool stone and watching as the rain continues to fall in thick sheets, turning the field of grass into a lake.

He feels betrayed, and he doesn’t even know if he has the right to.

Imane is the one who should feel betrayed. Alaoui, too. Lucas’ only stake in this is that Imane is his friend, and to hear that someone deliberately set out to break her heart makes him furious, as it would for any of his friends. But it wasn’t just anger that roiled in Lucas’ blood. It was coupled with an acute hurt, one that ached deep under his skin, and betrayal, whether he has the right to feel it or not, and for that, Lucas became the storm within the storm.

Somehow, he’ll have to find the way back to Yann and Chloé’s—back through the rain, back through the trees and lakes of grass. He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking for, but he hopes he hasn’t gone too far. If he’s become lost, he’ll have to explain it to Yann when he finally returns: that, in a fit of passionate rage, he ran out into a night storm and couldn’t find his way back.

But knowing him, Yann probably wouldn’t even be that surprised.

“Lucas.”

He startles, knocking his head against the pillar, and he inhales sharply through the pain, whirling around to see another drenched figure, wearing another useless coat that’s become heavy with rain, another wild-looking thing with heavy bones and sleepless eyes.

Lucas wants to _scream_. Of course it’s him.

It’s always him.

“Oh.” Frustration seeps into his voice. “Mr. Demaury.”

“L—Mr. Lallemant.”

A clap of thunder echoes overhead.

“Listen to me. I have to tell you something, that I—well…I’m sorry, but I have to tell you,” Demaury says. “There’s nothing else for it.”

Lucas frowns at him “What?”

Demaury groans, rubbing his hands down his face. When he takes them away, he looks resigned, as though he’s about to do something he already knows he’ll regret.

It makes Lucas nervous.

“I came to Montrose for you.” Demaury says in a rush, “I heard you were coming and I had to see you, because, I—for months I’ve been struggling. I’ve tried endlessly to repress my feelings but it’s impossible. They are too consuming, and I am living in too much hope with every word you say, every glance you give, _hell_ , every gesture you make. I did not dare let myself imagine it when I first met you, but now I can think of little else. I have had to fight against _everything:_ the expectations of my family, the disparity of our circumstances, my good sense, and even my own shame, and now I need you to end my misery and tell me: would you,” Demaury inhales sharply, his hands clenching at his sides, “would you want to be with me?”

Lucas’ heart has become lodged in his throat, it’s heavy beating echoing in his ears, louder even that the thunder, and his own voice sounding weak and strangled when he says, “I don’t understand.”

“I love you.”

And there—Lucas’ entire world is upended.

“Most ardently,” Demaury continues, his voice cracking on the second word. “Of course I cannot ask you to marry me, but I can offer you everything I have, everything I am, and I can ask you to be with me. Please,” Demaury takes a small step closer. In the faint light, his eyes are the same stormy grey as the sky. “Say you will be with me."

It’s impossible. Lucas has walked out of the trees and into a dream because this is _impossible_.

He remembers when he first overheard Alaoui mention him to Demaury, the suggestion in his tone, the probing nature of his questions. Lucas had let himself believe, for a moment, that Demaury was like him. Lucas had let himself believe, and then had let himself succumb to fantasy, even though he knew that such a thing would never occur.

Yet, here he is. Demaury, standing before him, rain-drenched and claiming to be in love, and just like that night at the ball, Lucas has a moment where he lets himself open one eye to the possibility, to everything that it would entail. Being held by him. Being—

No.

“I am sorry,” Lucas begins slowly, clearly, “to have caused you such struggle. It was unconsciously done.”

Demaury’s face, which had been painfully open in its hope, its expectations, begins to fall.

“I believe when such a confession is given—well, normally,” Lucas doesn’t linger on the meaning behind it, of what _normal_ means, “there is an obligation to express a reciprocation of feelings, but I cannot do that.”

Demaury blinks. A drop of rainwater falls from his hair to his cheek. “Are you rejecting me?” He asks quietly.

“Given that you had an entire list of reasons for why having feelings for me would be such a hindrance to your life, I am sure it will not take long for you to recover from them.”

Demaury is silent. His head ducks low on his shoulders, his normally rigid posture crumpling in on itself like a thin sheet of paper catching fire. He licks his lips, and when he speaks again, his voice is flat, devoid of emotion. “I might ask, given the sensitivity of such a confession, the very chance I’m taking with giving it, why you reject it without any attempt at civility?”

_Civility_. Alright.

“And I might ask,” Lucas says hotly, taking a step towards Demaury, standing tall so he can meet his eyes, “why, if desire was to sway my heart in your favour, you tell me that you love me against your own good sense? Your own _shame_?”

Demaury’s eyes widen. “No, no, I didn’t—”

“I have felt shame, Eliott Demaury. I have felt it as often as I feel happiness, and I cannot stop myself from feeling it, but I can try to stop others from forcing it upon me. Do you think it would be the same for us at all? You, with your title and your fortune. Me, with three cousins and no real inheritance to speak of. Do you really think we fear the same things?”

Demaury looks as though he’s been slapped. It spurs Lucas on, makes him drive his knife deeper.

“If I was uncivil without cause, that would be one thing, but I have a world of reasons to dislike you.” He takes another step forwards. “How could I ever consider being with the man who has ruined the happiness of a most beloved friend?” At Demaury’s shocked expression, he spits out, “Do you deny it?”

“I do not deny it.” Demaury says, and lack of regret in his voice makes Lucas’ skin prickle.

He lets out a noise that is pure outrage, raw and unhinged. “ _Why_? Why would you do it?”

“I believed her to be indifferent.” Demaury says, and his voice is rising to match Lucas’ now, the both of them staring each other down like hawks. “I watched them closely and saw clear evidence of it. Sofiane himself even doubts that she returned his affection.”

“Because you suggested it!”

“I was protecting him.” Demaury says fiercely.

“Imane hardly shows her true feelings to me!” Lucas cries, frustration pooling in his veins. “She is protective with _herself_! But no, you decided you knew what was best for both of them, and now have led them into hopeless misery.” Lucas turns away from him, hurt and exhausted and angry, so _angry_ , and suddenly, more than anything, he wants to make Demaury answer for everything he has done, everything Lucas knows, and he turns to him again, squaring his shoulders back and lifting his chin. “And what of Mr. Munier?”

The name gets a noticeable reaction from Demaury, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching. “Mr. Munier? You seem to take an eager interest in his concerns.”

“I would think that any decent person with knowledge of his misfortunes would also take such an interest in him.”

“His _misfortunes_?” Demaury lets out a dark laugh. “Yes, his misfortunes have been great.”

Lucas can scarcely believe what he’s hearing. “You are the one who has withheld any and all advantages from him. You have taken away what was rightly his, you have singlehandedly reduced him to his lowly state of income, and now you speak of him with contempt and ridicule? I believe now I understand what you refer to when you speak of shame, Mr. Demaury.”

Demaury’s hands drop down to his sides. “This is what you think of me,” he says, not a question, but a resignation. His eyes are hollow when they land on Lucas again. “Perhaps you would have been able to forgive these faults of mine you so readily seek if your pride—”

“ _My_ pride?”

“—had not been so hurt by my honest confession of my worries and struggles. Of my _shame_ , that you are so convinced I am immune to feeling because of my estate.”

“Oh, believe me, Mr. Demaury, there is no confession you could have imagined that would have had a different response from me.” Lucas strides forward until their feet are nearly touching, their soaked coats spilling rainwater into one puddle on the stone floor. “From the very beginning I knew, that even if you were ever able to see me in such a way, even if you were like me, that your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others had me convinced that you were the last man I would ever want to be with.”

The words fall into a stunned silence. Even the rain sounds faint under the weight of it. Their eyes lock across the gasp of space between them, their chests heaving and their faces flushed.

Demaury’s eyes drop to Lucas’ mouth, a crease forming between his brows, as though he’s on the verge of something, and Lucas wildly wonders if Demaury is going to kiss him, even after all of that, and once the word _kiss_ appears in his mind it appears again— _kiss_ —and Lucas doesn’t know why it’s happening now, when he just told Demaury how much hates him, because he does, he hates him so _much_ he’s never felt like this before—

“Forgive me.” Demaury steps back, the space between them widening, their shared puddle broken apart by the press of his boots. “You have made your feelings perfectly clear, and I am only sorry to have troubled you with my own. I…please accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

And without another word, he leaves.

Lucas can do nothing but stand there, for a moment that seems to last years, staring at the empty space Demaury left behind, utterly lost. When he’s finally able to move again, he collapses into one of the pillars, sinking down to the floor as his shoulders being to shake.

Overhead, another clap of thunder shakes the grey sky, and the rain, torrential and relentless, continues to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you next friday 🌟
> 
> thank you so much for reading 🌷
> 
> comments, kudos, and feedback always appreciated
> 
> on tumblr [@lepetitepeach](https://lepetitepeach.tumblr.com) if you want to talk meaningful gazes and fleeting hand touches!!


	3. to be known by you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which there's a letter, and everything changes
> 
> hello!
> 
> i'm posting this a day early, simply because it's my birthday and because i felt like it 😁 - i hope you're all taking care of yourselves the best you can, and are staying safe 💛 please enjoy some Repressed Pining as a little escape from this big old world
> 
> i want to say a quick thank you to the wonderful claire margaret, who was so lovely and patient with me, and not only answered all of my questions, but gave me a fantastic idea regarding eliott's backstory. thank you thank you love!!
> 
> here we go!

Lucas doesn’t quite know how, but he makes it back.

Back into the rain, across the lake of grass, through the thick line of trees, back to the narrow road leading to Yann and Chloé’s house, and back inside the door, closing it softly behind him.

“Lucas?” Yann’s head pokes his head into the hallway. “Lucas, where the hell have you been?” His eyes travel down to his feet, to the puddle making an island of him. “Why are you so wet?”

Chloé gasps when she sees him, forcing him upstairs and into a bath, leaving a thick, warm robe of Yann’s on his bed for him to wear. Lucas accepts it gratefully, as well as the steaming hot cup of tea left on the bedside table, and he sinks heavily into the armchair by the window, clutching the cup tightly in his hands.

The violence of the storm has passed, and in its wake there comes a fog.

Lucas doesn’t track the pass of time while he sits curled in that chair, taking occasional sips of his tea until it grows cold, staring vacantly out the window. He tries to sleep, but whenever he closes his eyes, he sees his face. He sees the way it crumbled when he said, _Are you rejecting me?_

Yann comes in around lunchtime, sprawling across Lucas’ bed with a story and a plate of food, recounting a strange dream he had while he breaks apart a loaf of bread and passes every other piece to Lucas.

Chloé returns to light the candles in the room, and that’s the first moment that Lucas realizes the sun is beginning to set; no, that it’s past setting, is slipping down the horizon as Lucas stretches stiff bones and sighs. His eyes feel heavy and clouded.

“Are you going to bed?” Chloé asks, hesitating by another candle.

“No.” Lucas stretches his arms over his head, wincing when his shoulders crack like bark splitting. “No, I’ll be up for a bit, but thanks.”

“Sure.” She lingers by the door, tapping her fingers against the frame. “Yann and I will go to bed soon, but if you need anything, just…” Her voice trails off. She shrugs. It’s a gesture she’s borrowed from Yann, too informal and too loose on her.

Lucas nods. “Thank you.”

“Are you alright, Lucas?”

“I’m fine. I must have caught something from being out in the rain, but it’s not serious. Don’t worry.” He flashes her a faint smile and she gives one in return, before turning on her heels anddisappearing down the hallway, her footsteps fading to silence.

Night seeps in through Lucas’ window, sweet and anonymous, and he stands from his chair, tightening the belt of Yann’s robe and unfurling the thick wool blanket from the foot of his bed to wrap around his shoulders. He clutches the ends tightly to his chest and slowly, softly walks downstairs, passing through the parlour, the dining room, and finally stepping out the back door into Yann’s garden.

The wind has stopped alongside the rain, but even in the aftermath of a storm the night is never quiet: it is filled with rustling leaves and creaking branches, the song of a nightingale and the chatter of insects.

Lucas inhales and tips his head back, eyes up to the sky, and there are lingering clouds, whispers of black silk across the stars, but in their tears and rips Lucas can see small glimmers in the vast darkness, and he’s reminded all over again of how lost sailors find their way home—through trails and trails of starlight.

It’s there, in the middle of the garden, wrapped warmly in borrowed layers, where he finds him.

“Mr. Lallemant.” He says, and Lucas doesn’t have to lower his eyes, doesn’t have to turn his head. He already knows. Feels almost like he was expecting it. _How did I know he was going to come?_

“How did I know I would find you here?” Demaury murmurs, and Lucas tugs the blanket closer around his body, burrowing his face in its folds.

“I was hoping you would still be awake. I wanted to speak to you, but my words always seem to fail me around you.” He gives a small, weary sigh. “So I have written this. For you.” There’s a rustle, the sound of wool whispering together and paper crinkling. “Please read it.” A pause. “Please.”

When Lucas finally raises his head, Demaury is gone, but the letter is there, cream-coloured and creased on the corner and laid carefully onto on a stone bench at the edge of the garden.

Lucas takes it upstairs, folds himself back into his chair, and opens it. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting: a brief apology maybe, or a finely-pointed insult from Demaury’s sore pride, but his eyes widen when he sees the two sheets inside, overflowing with a loose, messy cursive, the words flooding across the page like water.

It begins, _Please do not be alarmed by receiving this letter, Mr. Lallemant._

_In it you will find no repetition of the feelings I expressed this morning, or the offer I made, which was so appalling to you. I write without any intention of causing you further discomfort, and, I hope that soon, those feelings will not weigh so heavily in my heart. The only reason this letter is being written at all is because I wish to tell the truth, as I know it, and I wish for you to hear it._

_There are two offences you accused me of earlier, both enough to paint me as someone detestable in your eyes—someone that delights in the misfortunes of others. To the first, of my separation of Miss Bakhellal and Alaoui, I will explain it to you exactly as I saw it._

_I have seen Alaoui grow attachments before, you see. I have seen him give his heart away without reciprocation, each time more painful than the last, and so I am protective of him. When I first noticed how much he favoured Miss Bakhellal, it made me wary. But she proved herself to be a level-headed person, and Alaoui was cheerful enough that I thought it was nothing more than a brief infatuation on his part. It wasn’t until the ball at Champrés that I heard Mr. Cazas speak of their engagement as a surety—the only unknown was when the wedding would take place. After that I began to watch them more closely._

_I’ve known Alaoui for a long time, and in that time I’ve come to know him as an infallibly honest man, who never thinks twice of baring his heart for the entire world to see. I both admire and envy that in him. It was easy to tell, just from watching them over the course of that night, that he was in love with her, but Miss Bakhellal seemed indifferent to his affections. She was as pleasant as she always was, but did not appear to like Alaoui more than she liked anyone else. Not nearly as much as he liked her._

_I grew worried about him, that he would once again have to suffer a broken heart, so when Alaoui announced that he had to return to Paris for business, I saw the opportunity to go with him. Lucille, who made her dislike of the country well-known in the course of our stay there, was eager to come as well. It was in Paris that we were able to convince him to stay, and I’m not proud of it, for I appealed to his generous nature, and took advantage of it. Alaoui is someone who hates to disappoint others, and bends his will too often in order to keep peace with everyone in the room. He’s too kind. Far more kind than I am._

_In the end it was not overly difficult to convince him, not with Lucille’s added efforts. He was quiet for a few days, withdrawn, but I gave him time because I thought he needed to heal from his attachment to her, and I was right. As the days went on, he grew more into himself, and I thought all of it was over._

_But hearing from you that Miss Bakhellal is shy in her affections, and naturally modest, that has made me second-guess my actions. You would know her far better than me, having grown up together, and I have found myself recalling the moments where I saw them together, wondering what it was I missed. If I have hurt her, it was not my intention to do so. I did not think her feelings were as deep as his. I am sorry._

_I do not have many friends, Mr. Lallemant. I am not like you. The friends I do have I am selfish with and protective over, maybe to a fault. If these motives are not forgivable in your eyes, then I hope they are at least understandable._

_As for your other accusation, regarding my dealings with Mr. Munier, I think my only way to defend myself against it is to tell you everything that has happened between us. From the very beginning._

_Mr. Munier was brought up by a wonderful man who oversaw my family’s estate for years. When we were boys, we were as close as brothers, and in fact, after Munier’s father passed, my own father began to see him as a second son, and happily paid for all of his schooling alongside me._

_But it was when we were in school that things began to change; firstly with myself. You may very well have heard rumours of me, Mr. Lallemant. Rumours of me taking to my bed for days at a time. Rumours that there is something wrong with me, something that cannot be explained. For once, there is a bit of truth to these rumours. I have an illness, one that causes me to enter into bouts of intense, uncontrollable happiness followed by depressive moods that can last for days at a time. There is no name for this illness, no accepted definition, no understanding, and for that some people are wary of me. My father, when I began to experience these moods, wanted to send me away, but my mother refused to let that happen. Their compromise was to pull me from school, to have me study at home, and to rarely leave. This is why you haven’t seen me dance. Mr. Lallemant. I never learned how._

_Munier continued to attend school, and it was during his visits home from Paris when I began to see a change in him as well. There was a growing ugliness in him, a cruelty that he hid well from my father, but could not hide so easily from me, not when I already knew him so well._

_Yet my father loved him, and he no longer trusted me. I didn’t learn of this until after he passed, but my mother told me he had been speaking of willing the entire estate to Munier, right before he died. It was her guess that, in some of Munier’s visits to my father’s sick bed, he tried to convince him to make the change. But there was never time for a new will to be drawn up, and so the estate was left to me. There were clear instructions in it, however, to support Munier, and to give him placement in the local parish once a vacancy opened, as well as an allowance one thousand francs._

_Munier told me that he had no interest in this, that what he wanted to do was study law, and one thousand francs would be insufficient funds in order to do so. Honestly, the priesthood is the last place I could ever imagine him, so I accepted his terms. We let the parish go to someone else, and I provided him with three thousand francs. He left once more for Paris, and I thought that would be last I ever heard from him._

_After that, I did everything my father never thought I could do. I was frightened, yes, but I had spent so long being hidden away, that I could do it no longer. So I took charge of the estate. I went to university. I travelled. I made friends. I found someone to talk to, in Paris. Someone who believes conditions such as mine can be aided with regular, deep discussion, and it did help. It does help._

_Then, my dear mother passed as well, and I became guardian to my younger sister, Daphné. We have always been close, and I am happy to look after her, just as she is happy to look after me. But I had to be away from the estate to finish at the university, and during that time Daphné went to stay with relations of ours near the coast. It was here that she met Munier. I could say he followed her there, but it would only be speculation._

_When I heard from our relations that a man fitting Munier’s description had been paying visits to Daphné, I left for the coast at once, and I found them just as they were preparing to elope._

_Daphné was only fifteen years old._

_I cannot adequately express the anger I felt when I found them together. She claimed to be in love, and I think those sentiments were genuine in her. Munier has always had a gift of charm and flattery, and I cannot imagine anyone being entirely immune to them, especially someone young and vulnerable._

_Daphné confessed everything to me when I arrived, and once I made it clear that, even if they were married, Munier would never see any of Daphné’s inheritance—which is to be ten thousand francs—he left. Daphné was brokenhearted. Even now, years later, I think she still carries some of that pain with her._

_That was the last time I saw him, until Alaoui and I happened across you that day near Hérisson, where you first experienced the hostility between us._

_It is difficult to admit, but my anger towards Munier has long been coupled with a fear of him. For years, I could think of little else other than how deeply Munier knows me, how he has seen me in the depths of my moods, and how because of that, he has something to leverage against me. I have heard a few of the rumours circulating about me, and I do not know if they come from him or not, but as I’ve gown more into myself, I have realized that I do not wish to live in fear of such a man. I do not wish to live in fear of what others may think about me. I hope you don’t mind me expressing a similar sentiment that you directed towards me, Mr. Lallemant, but I also think that I am someone who has been made to feel more than my fair share of shame, and I refuse to enable those who wish more of it upon me._

_I don’t believe that either of us should ever be ashamed. Not for anything that is a part of our nature._

_I have laid it all out for you now, and it is my hope that you can see the truth in these accounts. I do not expect you to forgive me, or to suddenly view me as a friend, but as I said, my only hope is that perhaps you will understand me a little bit more._

_I will try to bring you this letter after sunset, when I’m not under the watchful eye of Lady Sylvie. I have a feeling that, if I find you, you will be looking at the stars._

_Yours,_

_Eliott Demaury_

Lucas wakes late in the morning, with bright sunlight pouring in through the window and Demaury’s open letter resting on his lap. He thinks it a dream at first, that the events of the last few days are a combination of too much wine and too little sleep, but then he shifts on the bed and the paper crinkles against him, and all of it comes rushing back: his walk in the rain, Demaury’s proposal, and now, the letter and its contents.

He says nothing of it to Yann or Chloé over breakfast, still too unsure of what to make of it, or even whether to believe it.

His first instinct is to not. Demaury’s just trying to save himself. He’s trying to throw all of the blame onto Munier.

“His reasoning for Imane and Alaoui isn’t even that _good_ ,” Lucas mutters to himself as he walks behind Yann and Chloé on the edge of a river, halfway through a leisurely stroll in the afternoon sun.

“What was that, Lucas?” Yann calls over his shoulder.

“Oh. Uh, I…said that I would really like some food.”

He rereads the letter that night, pacing around his room barefoot, his hair sticking up in every possible direction from continuously running his hands through it.

_He’s lying_ , he thinks. _He has to be. His pride is hurt from being rejected and now he wants to paint himself a hero._

Lucas pivots sharply on the spot, his heels digging into the wooden floor. He bites down hard on the skin next to his thumbnail.

_Except, in order to reveal Munier as a duplicitous lech, he has to reveal himself as…_

Lucas pivots on the floor again, the wood creaking under his feet.

_As what? As a man who is unwell? A man who is unstable? Dangerous?_

It’s a designation that doesn’t fit. Demaury is many things: proud, condescending, arrogant, conceited, but he has never seemed to Lucas as someone not in their right mind. Nor has he ever seemed dangerous. Not in that way.

To make up such a thing is difficult to imagine. The risk involved is too high. Even if Demaury were a vengeful person, to claim this about himself in order to tarnish the reputation of someone else—no, it doesn’t make sense. Lucas could share this letter with everyone he knows. He’s sure that there are others who would feel the same about Demaury’s illness as his father does, who would be eager to deem him unfit to run his estate. The thought, despite Lucas’ feelings towards Demaury, is horrifying. It’s blatantly unjust.

_I don’t believe that either of us should ever be ashamed. Not for anything that is a part of our nature._

Lucas pivots again on the floor.

So then, the only conclusion left is that Demaury is telling the truth.

_If he’s telling the truth, then how could Munier conceal such a nature so easily?_

_You know better than most, some people make a life out of lying._

It goes on like this, a thought, a turn, a thought, a turn, until Lucas exhausts himself, collapsing onto his bed with the letter left open on the windowsill, taunting him.

Demaury doesn’t come to see him for the rest of his stay with Yann and Chloé, and Lucas doesn’t seek him out. He spends his afternoon walks with the happy couple dreading that they’ll stumble upon Demaury, and then being disappointed that they don’t. Lucas dreams up a moment where he can storm up to Demaury and demand he explain everything right to Lucas’ face, so Lucas can see his eyes as he talks, and search for the truth there.

But it never happens, and Lucas leaves Yann and Chloé’s home with nothing more than a long hug, a kiss to the cheek, a final wave, and a letter, folded neatly into the breast pocket of his waistcoat, so he can take it out to read again on the long carriage ride.

Home is a painting he steps into once again.

Everything feels the same as he carries his suitcase up the walk: the garden is blooming, the grass is thick, and through an open window in the drawing room, Lucas can hear piano music overtop of raucous laughter.

The only thing that’s different is Lucas himself, shaken by a single offer and a single letter, both given to him by a single man.

(It’s astonishing, the ways in which we affect one another.)

He’s nearly tackled to the ground when he steps through the front door, knocked sideways by Alexia and Emma, all of them yelling at once, Lucas in a panic and Emma and Alexia in joy, squeezing him tightly between them.

“Lucas you’re back!”

“How was your trip?”

They stumble into the kitchen like that, limbs attached and voices overlapping, to where Mrs. Banet and Manon sit together at the table, turning to watch their slow, clumsy entrance with matching smiles.

“He returns,” Mrs. Banet says grandly.

Manon drops her chin into her palm. “How is Yann?”

“He’s alright.” Lucas stumbles again as Alexia detaches from him, throwing herself onto the bench next to Manon and laying her head on her shoulder. “He’s very…married.”

“Wait.” Emma frowns. “Yann got married?”

Lucas squints at her. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Well.” Mrs. Banet flicks a stray strand of hair off of her forehead. “Glad to hear that Yann has settled down so sensibly. Would you say it was a nice house, Lucas?”

Emma snickers into Lucas’ shoulder. He meets Manon’s eyes across the table and she grins, shaking her head.

“I would.” Lucas picks up an apple from a wicker basket on the bench, shines it against his shirt and examines it.

He doesn’t elaborate and Mrs. Banet huffs, impatient. “Well, I assumed it would be. Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon has set them up well, then.”

Lucas bites into the apple. “Seems like,” he mumbles around his mouthful.

“Manners, Lucas, _please_.” She clears her throat delicately. “Well, that’s wonderful for Yann, then, isn’t it?”

“Mama,” Alexia complains. “You’re not being subtle.”

“I don’t need to be, darling.” Mrs. Banet says with a smile, patting her on the hand.

Lucas sighs. Emma steals the apple from him to take a large, obnoxious bite, then drops it back into his palm. She smiles at him, closed-mouthed, her cheeks puffed out. “I bet you’re glad to be back, aren’t you?”

“Emma, _manners_.”

He goes to visit Imane the next morning.

“I’m fine, Lucas.” She says with a pleasant smile, pouring them tea in the Bakhellal kitchen. Trails of steam from the pot curls around her face like vines. “There’s nothing more to say about it. If I were to pass him in the street, I’m sure I wouldn’t recognize him.”

Lucas has his elbows planted on their table, his chin resting in his cupped palms. “But—”

“It’s not as though I was alone, anyway. I was with Idriss. I was in _Paris_. There’s far more to keep me occupied there than thoughts of a single man.”

“But Imane—”

“Lucas.” The teapot drops down heavily to the table. “I mean it.”

Lucas falls silent, his eyes low on the thick grains of wood forming nonsensical patterns in front of him.

The letter is tucked between the pages of the _Encyclopédie_ in Lucas’ room, flattened somewhere between _Memoire_ and _Raison_ , but it still feels as though Lucas is carrying it around. The knowledge of it is a palpable weight in his chest.

He should tell her.

He doesn’t know how to say it.

He knows she’s hurting more than she lets on. He knows _her_ , and he knows how she tries to put on an unshakeable facade around others so she can overcome her emotions by herself, but the idea of telling her that Alaoui was easily manipulated, that he did really love Imane—well, Lucas thinks hearing that will only serve to hurt her more.

In his indecision, he comes up silent and lost.

“I’m alright, Lucas.” Imane finally says, lowering onto the bench across from him. “I just…I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I’ve already had to spend days convincing my parents and my brother not to hunt him down and put him on trial.”

Lucas nods. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He lays one hand flat against the wood, the other following the path of a grain, like he’s following a path through the woods, rain slick on the back of his neck, stumbling onto a clearing with a lake of grass, and a stone pavilion tucked into the trees.

“How was Bourgogne?”

Lucas’ head snaps up.

Imane stares at him calmly over the cup of tea cradled carefully between her hands. “Did you see that rich woman? What’s her name? Cravatt?”

“Ferte-Cravon.” Lucas corrects without thinking. He rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “And I did. Her house is just as ridiculous as you would think.”

“What’s she like?”

“As ridiculous as you would think.”

Imane laughs, loudly and freely, and Lucas smiles at the sound. He wraps his hands around his teacup, the warmth from the porcelain seeping into his skin.

“I can only imagine,” Imane says dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Well. Trapped between a newlywed couple and an eccentric aristocrat. You must have had a good time.”

“It was alright.”

“Did you meet anyone else there?”

Lucas’ face falls. Only for a moment, as long as it takes to conjure up an image of a man soaked to the bone with rain, and then he shakes his head, blinking back down to the table.

“No.” His teacup rattles in its saucer when he places it back down. “No, I didn’t.”

The letter remains stuck between the pages of his _Encyclopédie_ , which remains in the middle of a stack of books with worn, cracking spines resting on Lucas’ dusty floor. Sometimes when Lucas can’t sleep, he’ll roll onto his side so he can see it, but he never opens the book. He doesn’t read the letter again.

Not that he would need to. He nearly has it memorized.

He tries to keep himself occupied to bar it from his mind. He returns to his star map with vigour, spending long hours hunched over his uncle’s desk, until the muscles in his back are knotted as tightly together as rope. He takes long walks out to his favourite field, brings a book but doesn’t open it, falling asleep in the grass and waking up pink from the May sun. He sits on the roof at night, sketching mindlessly in his notebook, dotted stars and carved moons, intersecting comets and imaginary constellations. He tries to play the piano again, much to Alexia’s delight, but stops when he finds himself drifting into a waltz.

His attempts at distraction can only do so much, and as the floral sunrises of May turn into the endless days of June, Lucas, once again, becomes restless. Anxious. He paces within the confines of his own head like a caged animal.

He needs, he thinks, to go somewhere loud and distracting enough to make everything else fall silent.

He writes to Arthur and Basile on a Thursday, and receives a response the following Tuesday.

_Lucas_ , it reads.

_Of course! Come whenever you want! In fact, why don’t you come next week? We were planning on travelling to Loiret for a few days. (Basile wants to see castles, apparently.) Why don’t you come to Paris first, and then we can all go together?_

_Love,_

_Arthur_

_( & Basile)_

“Paris, then?” Mrs. Banet eyes him shrewdly over her marmalade toast the next morning. “And when you return will you be spouting off praises of that university like the last time?”

Lucas cracks open an eggshell with his spoon. “It won’t be like that. I just miss them, that’s all.”

Alexia slumps in her chair. “This is so unfair. Lucas gets to go to Paris _and_ Loiret. Manon gets to go to the coast. Where do we get to go?”

“To church,” Emma mutters under her breath, and Mr. Banet swats her with his newspaper. She lets out an indignant squawk, reaching for his weapon in an attempt at retaliation.

“Ungrateful child,” Mr. Banet mutters, but they’re both laughing, struggling for control of the newspaper. Emma knocks her elbow against a jar of jam and sends it skidding across the table, stopping only when Manon catches it in one hand, smiling as she watches them.

The offer came by post a week ago, for Manon to join some of their cousins—the Beauregards, cousins from the _other_ side of the family who have always been a mystery to Lucas—in Brest for the start of the season. Emma and Alexia view Manon’s exclusive invitation as a great injustice, and had talked of little else since the letter arrived.

When Lucas heard of the invitation, he felt only relief. He knew Munier continued to write to Manon, and while nothing was completely confirmed for Lucas, the accusation Demaury made, and the evidence he presented, were enough to make him suspicious of Munier’s intentions. He thought that if Manon went away for a while, maybe it would be enough to distract her from him. 

“You’ll go one day,” Mr. Banet says kindly, letting Emma snatch the newspaper away from him, a gentle smack landing on his forehead. “Let your sister have this.”

“Fine.” Alexia gives a put-upon sigh. “But just know, Papa, that I’ll be in my room tonight, pressed against the window, listening for the sound of waves, and a single, perfect tear will roll down my cheek, and it will be all your fault.”

Emma returns Mr. Banet’s newspaper to him, and he unfolds it again, flicking it open. “Uh huh.”

“I’ll sing a mourning song into the night of what could have been.”

“Uh huh.”

Manon leaves before Lucas, departing in a flurry of hugs and goodbyes and waves from the bench of the carriage.

“Mama is expecting her to return engaged.” Emma tells Lucas as they stand on the porch, watching the carriage’s bouncing progress. “Or at least with a new suitor.”

“When is she not expecting that?” Lucas grumbles, and Alexia laughs.

“I think she’s given up hope on Munier, though. She thought he would propose to Manon _months_ ago, and he never did.”

“It’s strange,” Emma muses. “We all thought he would. They were exchanging letters every other day at the start. It was a _whirlwind_.” Her hand rises to her forehead and she swoons, falling into Lucas’ arms.

Lucas catches her awkwardly, staggering at the sudden force of her weight. “Maybe,” Lucas grunts, pushing her back to standing, “that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“What, forgetting Munier?” Alexia asks, frowning. “But Manon really likes him. As much as I can tell, anyway. You know how she is.”

Lucas does know. Manon is not so different from Imane, keeping her true feelings close to her chest, and in that way, Lucas is not so different from either of them. They all hold onto their secrets tightly.

“I just think it would be best for her to move on.” Lucas says with a shrug. He squints down the road, where he can still make out the silhouette of the carriage. He hopes she meets the most perfect man in the entire world on the beach, and falls madly in love. He hopes she wades out into the water and realizes she doesn’t need anyone at all, that she wants to be alone and doesn’t, in fact, want to respond to letters from a desperate officer.

Any of it seems more appealing than having to face the idea of her possibly becoming engaged to Munier. Knowing what he knows, even if they only stand as accusations, Lucas can’t stomach the idea of it.

_You should have told her._

Again and again. Lucas is holding back and he doesn’t know why. Because he doesn’t want to hurt her? Because he doesn’t want Demaury’s accusations to be true? Because then that would mean that all of them—himself included—fell for it. For Munier.

_I’ll tell her when she comes back,_ he silently promises, to the elm trees, to the June wind, and the morning sun, _I’ll tell her._

“Maybe she will.” Alexia says. She wiggles her fingers at Emma. “Maybe the sea air will be _diverting_.”

“Sure.” Lucas rolls his eyes. “That’s why you all want to go to Brest so badly. For the air.”

“Lucas!” Alexia gasps. “I can’t believe what you’re implying. Of course we would go for the air. For the landscape! For the cliffs!”

“The cliffs!” Emma echoes. She grips onto Emma’s hands, pulling her into a clumsy waltz. “What are men compared to rocks?”

They tilt their heads back in tandem to cry out, “What are men compared to the sea?”

“What is wrong with you two,” Lucas says, but he’s laughing, dropping his head down, shoulders shaking and helplessly laughing. They’re ridiculous, the both of them, as ridiculous as Mrs. Banet is, as ridiculous as Manon is, as ridiculous as he himself is—and that’s it, isn’t it? Sometimes a family can be bound more strongly by mutual ridiculousness, by their failings and their vices, than by blood.

And when you can see someone for their faults and failings, and still laugh along with them in the sunshine, still take their hand when they ask you to dance, well, that is love. That’s the only way Lucas can think to describe it.

Paris in June is long, hot days and dreamy nights of indigo blue. It’s wandering along the Seine and drifting in and out of cafés. It’s finding music everywhere you turn—each alleyway hiding a trumpet player, each balcony presenting a violinist. It’s eating too much and drinking too much, and falling asleep while the sun is still high and the windows are wide open.

Arthur and Basile’s apartment is minutes away from the university, on the top floor of a tall building that never sleeps, with its front door constantly opening and closing, and loud, passionate conversations carrying on throughout the night. The only moment where Lucas finds it completely silent is when he wakes up early in the morning, when the fog of the night has yet to lift, and the streets are still save for a few people stumbling home, their arms wrapped around each other.

There’s a life to Paris that has always fascinated him, from the first time he visited Basile and Arthur, when they had just started at the university. Everywhere Lucas went, he could feel the city’s heartbeat though the soles of his feet, thrumming in everything he touched. It was intoxicating.

Then he saw the university, and he became infatuated with its sprawling, dark-widowed buildings that seemed to breathe history and prestige, with the library that was vast and dimly lit, with ancient maps spread across wide oak tables and an endless forest of sturdy shelves filled with every book he could ever imagine.

But when Arthur showed him the telescope, that was when he fell in love.

At the far end of the same building that housed the philosophy school, there was a rounded room with a high glass ceiling that they snuck into through a back door. Star charts covered the walls, all dated at various points in the last hundred years. Compasses, stacks of paper, and pots filled with ink were strewn across every available surface. And at the centre of the room, a telescope: beautifully polished and unfathomably large. Lucas had never seen anything like it in his entire life.

That was when Arthur began telling him about the astronomy lectures: how the room would fill with eager students as some of the greatest minds in the field would talk for hours, touching on everything from the practical to the fantastic.

As Lucas listened to Arthur’s accounts of these incredible discussions, with his eyes fixed upon that telescope, a desire grew in him, so fierce and unyielding that it left no space inside of him for anything else.

He _wanted_ , in the only way he’s ever known how. Deeply, quietly, completely.

And now, it’s a lifetime away from that dream, and Lucas watches from Arthur’s windowsill as Paris sits in the brief, perfect peace of dawn, until it slowly starts to come alive again, with store front opening and bundles of newspapers being dropped down at street corners.

He watches until Arthur himself comes stumbling out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes with his fists, his glasses sitting precariously on top of his head.

“Lucas.” He greets him around a yawn. He squints into the rising sunlight. “Were you up all night?”

Lucas shrugs, tilting his forehead against the windowpane, following the path an older man sweeping outside the front of a café. “Just woke up early.”

Another door in the apartment opens and Basile appears, looking just as tired and dishevelled as Arthur, but smiling widely, stretching his arms over his head.

“Good morning gentlemen!”

Arthur groans, digging the heels of his hand into his eyes. “ _Shhh_.”

Basile laughs, swaying by Arthur to pat him on the head, then pirouetting on the floor before collapsing onto the sofa, staring up at them with wide, eager eyes.

“How are we feeling today?”

Arthur groans, falling onto the sofa next to him. “Euphoric.”

“Lucas, how did you sleep?”

Lucas shrugs again. He’s watching a young couple now, walking arm-in-arm down the street. Their heads bow towards each other as they laugh, their bodies drifting together with every step.

“Lucas?”

“Yes.” He lifts his head from the window, his attention drifting back into the living room. “Slept well, thanks.”

Basile drums his hands against his thighs. “Are we all ready to go, then?”

“I need a coffee before I can go anywhere,” Arthur says with a grunt.

“But weren’t we meeting that driver at noon?”

“Yes we are.” Arthur slumps back into the cushions. “Which is four hours from now.”

Lucas smiles, pulling his feet up onto the windowsill and wrapping his arms around his knees, watching them bicker. He thought, when he first agreed to the invitation, that he would be reluctant to leave Paris and travel to another country destination, but now that he’s actually in the city, he finds that, surprisingly, he’s eager to get away from it again.

He loves Paris, loves the light and the life and the feeling like anything could happen, but something about being there that bothers him, as ridiculous as it feels to even think to himself, is that it feels like the stars are further away.

Maybe if he was easily able to access the university’s telescope he would feel differently. Maybe he would feel like he’s on the edge of the world headed skywards, that he’s at the centre of the very universe, but he doesn’t have access to it. He doesn’t have the lectures, or the books, or the technology. He has only his own eyes and his notebook, and for that, he feels like he’s missing something.

Basile is rising from the sofa again, clapping his hands together. “I’m going to get packing.” He laughs gleefully. “I can feel the castles calling to me.”

“Really?” Arthur says. “Because I can feel my bed calling to me.”

Basile ignores him, striding back into his room. “Our gents’ weekend away!” He calls, his voice trailing after him. “It’s _time._ ”

Arthur sighs like he’s already regretting agreeing to this trip, but as his head rolls across the back of the sofa, he smiles, the same smile he used to give Lucas when they were children, when Arthur, Basile, and Yann would appear at his door, asking Lucas to come out with them to play soliders at the edge of the woods.

_Come on, Lucas. Let’s go._

And just like he did back then, Lucas smiles in return.

_Let’s go._

He hops down from the windowsill, and begins to pack his things.

Arthur found their carriage driver through an acquaintance of his mother’s: a middle-aged man with an impressive moustache named Herman Leplein. He’s waiting for them at the front door when they come down, grinning at them widely when they being talking to him about Loiret, and where they plan to go. “Don’t worry, boys. I know that area very well. I met my wife there, in fact…”

They discover, an hour into the journey, that Herman is the sort of man who has an endless arsenal of stories to tell, and is happy to tell them to any audience he can find, especially if it’s one trapped with him for hours upon end.

By the time they arrive in Orléans, at an inn called Le Cygne Blanc, which Herman claims he has stayed in many times before when he was a travelling musician, they have also heard about his wedding in Paris, his brush with highway robbers, his time serving on a naval vessel, and a complete, through account of the trials and tribulations of living with his wife Marie-Claire’s small dog named Bijou.

When they part ways from Herman for the night, with a promise to meet again in the morning to begin touring, Arthur, Basile, and Lucas let out a collective sigh.

“What a relaxing trip this will be,” Arthur says dryly.

“It will be!” Basile enthuses, stumbling on one of the stairs and gripping onto Lucas’ arm for support. “Remember what we’re here for: _castles_.”

As long as Lucas has known Basile, he has always leapt from interest to interest like a stone skipping across flat water. He’s changed his mind so many times about what he should be studying at the university that soon, he may very well have to leave, as his funds are on the path to becoming nonexistent. Lucas knows he’s often seen as directionless, because of how quickly he can change his mind, but he’s always seen Basile more as someone with too much excitement and curiosity living within himself, and nowhere that feels big enough to put it all into. So, he keeps trying to put it everywhere, rather than in one small place.

And so, Basile’s new interest has catapulted them all the way to Loiret.

“Why castles, Bas?” He asks him, glancing over his shoulder.

“ _No_ , don’t get him started.” Arthur groans.

Basile ignores him. “I’ve discovered I have a passion for history, you see.”

“Really?”

“He fancies himself a king in another life,” Arthur laughs.

Basile pokes him sharply in the back of the neck. “I do not. As I was saying, Lucas, I’ve recently discovered a calling in _history_.”

Lucas realizes that he should have heeded Arthur’s warning, because when they finally make it to the top of the stairs, Basile follows him into his room to continue waxing poetics about castles and ruins, diving into a monologue about the middle ages, about _land parcelling_ , and he doesn’t stop for an entire hour, until Lucas has unpacked, and he’s clutching his nightshirt tightly in his hands, staring at Basile across the dark room with only the embers of a dying fire to provide any light.

“Thanks, Bas.” He interjects when Basile takes a pause for a breath. He grins, placing his hands on his shoulders, steering him towards the door. “That was great, but I’d like to go to bed now, thank you.”

“Oh, no problem! It’ll be great tomorrow, when you can actually see them.”

“Absolutely.”

“Goodnight, Lucas!” Basile calls, just before Lucas closes his door. “See you in the morning!”

Down the hall, another door opens.

“Will you keep it down?” A voice hisses, and Lucas hears Basile mumble an apology before he flees to the other end of the hall, and then there’s one door opening, and another, and they close again, leaving the hallway dark and silent, save for the lingering conversation drifting up from the inn’s restaurant.

Lucas changes, stokes the fire to get one last bit of warmth, and slides into bed. The sheets are rough against his skin, but the pillow is soft, and between one breath and another, he falls asleep.

That night, he dreams that he’s standing on top of a tree, stretching up towards the sky, trying to touch the stars, and there’s the feeling of hands on him, pushing him up, guiding him, trying to help him get there.

Between Herman’s continuous stories and Basile’s inexhaustible chatter about castles, Arthur and Lucas spend most of their time in the carriage in silence, staring out into the passing scenery of trees, rock face and rolling hills with the June sun beating down on their heads.

Every time they pass by a set of ruins, as small or insignificant as they may be, Basile makes them stop. He gets out of the carriage to walk a perimeter around the ruins, inspect the stone, and then declares that the structure, “has to be at least a hundred years old.”

“You think?” Arthur calls from where he’s leaning against the side of the carriage, smoking a pipe that he somehow magicked out of nowhere. “Try three hundred, Bas.”

They make it to Chaumond and spend hours on the grounds. What starts as Basile monologuing about the 10th century becomes a game of hiding within the ruins and chasing each other through the broken stone and rubble. It’s utterly childish, not unlike how they used to play soldiers in the woods, but returning to it feels as easy as breathing, slipping back into their younger selves, not worrying about who might see them, or what other people may think.

Lucas didn’t realize how badly he needed something like this—an escape with an escape, a moment of pure uncomplicated joy, until he’s right in the middle of it, and his chest feels so light that he could be carried away on the wind. He could float up into the sky and make a bed of the clouds.

This. This is the reason he wanted to leave in the first place. This is what he’s been looking for.

It’s why, when all three of them collapse into the grass, sweaty and exhausted and starving, Lucas props himself up onto his elbows and says, “I’m glad we did this.”

Arthur grins.

Basile grips onto his ankle, squeezing once. “Me too.” He sighs, tilting his head back towards thebreeze, shutting his eyes. “I wish Yann was here.”

“I know.” Arthur stretches his arm out to pat Basile on the shoulder. “But we’ll see him soon enough. He’s just too…” He flops a hand vaguely through the air. “Married.”

Lucas bursts into laughter, rolling onto his side. “He is _incredibly_ married.”

“But what’s wrong with that?” Basile complains. He turns over onto his stomach, his eyebrows creasing together. “I want to be married.” He drops his head to the ground. “I want to be in _love_.”

Lucas shakes his head at him, with a feeling he could only describe as exasperated fondness. Arthur laughs, rising from the ground and brushing the grass away from his trousers. 

“Come on, Mr. Romance.” He tugs on one of Basile’s hands, pulling him up. “Let’s get you away from the medieval castles before you start composing sonnets.”

They return to the carriage, and plan with Herman to visit one more castle further west before turning back towards Orléans, then finishing for the day with copious amounts of food and scotch.

“I don’t think it’s strange to want to be married,” Basile says once the carriage begins to move again, fiddling with a loose thread on his jacket.

Arthur nudges his foot into Basile’s shin. “It isn’t strange, Bas. But it’s also not meant for everyone. It’s…some see it more as an obligation than anything else.”

Basile sighs in frustration. “I know that, but—” He turns wide eyes onto Lucas. “Don’t you want to be married, Lucas? Someday?”

Lucas looks down at his mud-stained shoes. It’s a question that Basile, evergreen romantic that he is, has asked Lucas before, and usually Lucas says nothing, just gives a shrug or nods his head, before he changes the topic entirely. Before, the idea of marriage made Lucas uncomfortable, because to him, it _would_ be an obligation. He would never be able to marry someone he loved, not with the way he was, but he knew it would be expected of him all the same. There was no other option.

Except—

_I cannot ask you to marry me, that is an impossibility, but I am asking you to be with me. Please._

“I don’t know,” Lucas murmurs, keeping his eyes fixed to his shoes.

“But what if someone really loved you? What if there was someone who—”

Basile’s sentence is cut short by the carriage lurching, sending all of them flying across the benches. Herman swears loudly, jerking on the reigns to pull the horses to a bumpy stop.

“What the hell was that?” Lucas asks. He tries to move and groans, something hard and heavy pressing into his back. “Basile, can you please get your foot off of me?”

“Sorry!”

They survey the damage together on the side of the road, cocking their heads at the loosened back wheel.

“It isn’t too bad,” Herman says confidently, patting a hand on the carriage’s end. “I’ve had the opportunity to repair a few carriages in my day. In fact, once when I was travelling to the alps…”

Herman sets up to repair the wheel with Arthur’s help while Lucas and Basile wait, seating themselves on the thick roots of an old tree encroaching on the road, sharing some fruit from the small stash of food they brought with them for the day.

“How long do you think this will take?” Arthur asks, rolling his sleeves up to his elbow.

Herman plants his hands on his hips, peering down at the wheel. “Difficult to say. But I would advise all of you to alter your plans for that final destination.”

“ _No_.” Basile moans, pressing his face into the tree’s trunk. “A cruel twist of fate.”

“Bas,” Lucas laughs, rolling his eyes, “relax. We can go somewhere else.”

“But where?”

“We aren’t too far from Arbrenne, actually.” Herman says, crouching next to the wheel. The name, entirely too familiar, makes Lucas lean forward on his root. There’s a nervous, fluttering sensation in his chest, like a butterfly is trapped underneath his ribs. “It’s a fairly famous landmark for anyone passing through this area. There’s that young man who owns it, his name is ah…Demaury.”

Lucas nearly falls off of his root.

“Why is it famous?” Arthur asks.

“What are these homes ever famous for? Beautiful grounds. Priceless art collection. There’s a lake on the property I’ve always thought would be lovely to fish in.”

Arthur turns towards Basile and Lucas, pursing his lips and lifting his shoulders. “Well? What do we think?”

Lucas, who is in the process of righting himself on top of the root, stops mid-motion to stare at him. “You want to go there?”

“Why not?” Arthur spread his arms out, encompassing the trees and fields around them. “What else are we going to do here? I’m curious about that art collection.”

“Didn’t you meet him in Allier?” Basile asks Lucas, his face creasing in concentration. “Am I remembering that right? The first night you were here you said—”

“I’d rather not go.” Lucas says sharply.

Basile, Arthur, and Herman all fall silent, blinking at him in collective confusion.

“No, I…” Lucas hums, shifting on the mossy root. “I just don’t think it would be…” He tilts his head towards the sky then drops it back down. “He’s so…” A rain-soaked face, hair falling onto his forehead, eyes open and pleading. “He’s so…” Sullen and silent, watching from the crowd as the waltz passes him by. “He’s so…rich.” Lucas finishes lamely, and he knows as soon as he says the word, that he’s lost the fight.

“He’s so rich.” Arthur says flatly.

Basile shakes his head solemnly. “Bit discriminating, don’t you think? It’s not as though he chose it.”

“Lucas, rich people are the exact sort of friends that we _need_.”

Herman laughs, wiping his hands onto his trousers. “I think you have a point, Mr. Broussard, but it won’t matter, anyway. These great men are never at home. Which has always struck me as strange, you know. Such beautiful places to live, and they’re never there to enjoy them.”

Arthur waves a hand out at Herman. “There. You see?”

And it’s decided.

The first time Lucas sees the Chateau d’Arbrenne, he bursts into laughter.

There’s no other reaction that feels fitting for it—for the vast grounds, for the glistening lake at the base of the sprawling broad-faced building, for the forest of ancient trees that sit at its back, for the symphony of birdsong that follows them the entire way down the carriageway. It’s fairy tale, this place, far more beautiful and grand than Lucas had ever imagined it would be, and he can’t do anything but laugh.

“Of course,” he murmurs to himself as he steps down from the carriage. “Of course this is it.”

Arthur lets out a low whistle.

Basile gasps.

“Did I not tell you?” Herman asks with a grin, crossing his arms over his chest. “One of the most impressive estates in the region.”

“Impressive,” Lucas echoes. His eyes don’t know where to land, drifting across the front of the house from door to window to spire and back down again. It’s not as large as Montrose, nor quite as lavish, but it’s breathtaking, and all Lucas can think is, this is the house that was offered to him, along with everything else Demaury has. In a way, this was very nearly his. He feels another hysterical laugh bubble in his throat.

“Well?” Arthur is staring at Lucas with a complicated expression creasing his features, something not quite teasing but not quite curious. “Shall we go inside?”

Lucas nods. Swallows once.

“Might as well.”

The housekeeper—a tall, kind-faced woman named Madeleine—is the one who greets them at the door. She ushers them inside happily, telling Herman that she’s always eager to grant tours of the open parts of the house for anyone passing by.

“You’re not the first I’ve had this week,” she says with a smile. “But I never mind. A house such as this one needs to be filled with people all the time, don’t you think?”

Lucas silently agrees with her. He can see it, the entryway lined with people waiting to gain entrance to all, dressed in their finest and whispering in anticipatory delight. He can see a gracious host, keeping to the fringes of the dancers, stubbornly refusing to join in even if Lucas were to beg him—

“Shall we begin, then?” Madeleine leads them through the entryway into a bright, high-ceilinged hall. “Now, the house itself was built in 1645, by Auguste Demaury, the first. He was fond of art, just as our Mr. Demaury is, and so loved the forest surrounding the house that he commissioned the painting of the ceiling in honour of it. He hired a local painter named Antoine Provot, and in fact, such was the task that Provot lived here for years while he completed it. You’ll note the Baroque style in the architecture, which was highly fashionable at the time…”

Lucas follows at a distance, Madeleine’s voice fading to a murmur as he tilts his head up, back, peering at the forest scene painted onto the ceiling. He can see a deer, peering around a think trunk, birds nestled into the branches, a wolf with sharp, bright eyes, and a fox, skulking through the undergrowth. It’s luxuriously detailed and lushly coloured, a single image bursting with story, and Lucas can’t bring himself to look away. He turns in a slow circle, his head still tilted upwards, another disbelieving laugh falling from his lips.

“Lucas, come on!”

His head snaps down and he turns again, finding the others waiting for him on a wide staircase leading into a long, open hallway.

Lucas hurries to catch up with them, but he can’t resist another glance up to the painted ceiling, to all of the life brimming within its confines. He’s barely seen any of the house, but he’s not even sure he needs to. He could lay on the floor of that hall all day, do nothing but stare at that painting, and he would be happy.

He considers it his favourite part of Arbrenne until he can see the garden through a window in the ballroom: a large stone terrace, flowers blooming in every colour imaginable, a flat expanse of grass that leads into the surrounding forest.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to sit out there one night, wrapped in a thick blanket, his notebook open on his lap.

But the gardens are his favourite part of this house only until they enter the hall of sculptures.

“Oh.” Arthur murmurs, removing his glasses so he can polish them on his handkerchief. “Oh, this is something.”

There are dozens of them, carved from pristine white marble and pale grey stone, depicting historical heroes and mythical figures, scenes of agony and pain and longing and love. They wander the hall, their eyes passing so slowly and reverently over the carvings that they could be fingers, tracing over every smooth, cold curve. Lucas pauses near a sculpture of two figures entwined, carved so that their hands leave behind impressions on one another, sinking into the marble flesh as though it is warm and living. The effect is mesmerizing.

But just beyond that sculpture, towards the centre of the room, is something else that catches his eye—a carving of a familiar face, wearing a familiar expression.

“Ah,” Madeleine says softly when she notices Lucas pause in front of it. “This is our Mr. Demaury.”

The eyes are blank, white spaces void of any touches of light blue or pale grey, and the hair is flat and lifeless against the bust’s head, but it is him. It possesses the same curved nose, the same high cheekbones, the same set to the mouth.

“He’s handsome.” Basile notes, with a touch of surprise. “Lucas, you didn’t say he was handsome.”

“It wasn’t of import.” Lucas says tartly, and Madeleine turns towards him with a wide, warm smile.

“You know Mr. Demaury?”

“Only a little.”

She laughs generously. “And you don’t think him handsome?”

Saying Demaury is handsome is akin to saying the weather in June is pleasant. It is almost too rudimentary a fact to be acknowledged.

Yet, the longer Lucas stares at the statue, the more his mind fills in the blank spaces with colour, movement, and memory, and Lucas can see him, not as the bust depicts him, but as he really is: the openness of his face; the way his eyes looked colourless against the grey sky; the curve of his smile when he watched Lucas play the piano. “No…I mean yes.” Lucas says softly, tilting his head as his eyes travel down the perfectly carved face. “He is. Handsome.”

And so, he considers the hall of statues to be his favourite part of Arbrenne, but that is only until they pass by a small library, lined with antique shelves overfilled with books and at the centre, two well-worn leather armchairs. It’s a warm, pleasant room, and Lucas’ gaze follows the natural direction of it curiously, to where it exits onto a wide balcony. The moment he sees it, his breath catches.

Arthur notices it as well. “Is that his?” He asks, pointing at the large brass telescope tucked into acorner of the room. “Demaury’s?”

Madeleine follows his gaze. “Oh, yes it is. Are you yourselves stargazers? Mr. Demaury is very fond of the arts, you know, but I’ve rarely ever seen him express any interest in the sciences. But then, only a few months ago, he brings this home, all the way from Paris.” She gives a small laugh, and her smile is fond, indulgent like that of a parent. “The most peculiar thing.”

The brass of the telescope is glossy and untarnished. It looks nearly unused.

Lucas has the strangest sensation flowing through him. It’s not unlike floating underwater—his body is weightless, every sound is muted except for the beating of his own heart.

“I would love to try it,” Arthur says with a wistful sigh.

“Did he—” Lucas blurts out, then presses his lips together when every head turns towards him expectantly. “Did he…” Lucas clears his throat, tugging the cuffs of his jacket over his hands. “Did he give any reason for the sudden interest?”

Madeleine shakes her head, her eyes glittering. “Only that he wanted to see the stars. But then, between us, he’s always been a bit of a romantic.” She winks surreptitiously at Lucas as she passes him by, continuing down the hallway.

Arthur and Basile follow her, but Lucas remains there, fixed to the spot, to that brass telescope, with something that ripples like shock but touches him softly like awe.

_He couldn’t have._

Demaury asked Lucas to be with him. He asked Lucas for his hand, in whatever way he could give it, but this, such a practical, thoughtful gesture of affection, that feels like too much to bear.

He tears his gaze away from the telescope, reeling from the connotations of it, and he realizes that he’s been left alone in the hallway.

“Arthur?” He calls out. “Basile? Miss Madeleine?”

His own voice echoes back to him and he sighs, grudgingly leaving behind the telescope and following the path they disappeared down coming to a fork in the hallway with one set of stairs going down, and one going up. He turns towards the descending stairs, thinking he can return to the entryway and meet them again, but just as he does, he hears something coming from the opposite direction.

A light tinkling of keys sinking into a fast-paced melody. Piano music.

He’s drawn towards the sound, following it up the other staircase, perking his ears as the melody grows stronger and rounder, confident and fearless. Whoever is playing, they’re good. Very good.

The stairs end at a set of green double doors, and one of them is cracked open just enough for the music to spill through, just enough for Lucas to press his cheek against it, and to peer into the room, his eyes dancing across another forest scene painted onto the far wall, another set of armchairs and a settee, and a dark wood piano forte, with a young woman seated at the bench.

Lucas can only see blonde hair tied back with a pink ribbon and a set of hands flying across the keys, creating the joyous, inexhaustible melody that summoned him from the the hallway. She nods along as she plays, lost within the music, and Lucas watches as a figure comes up behind her—someone tall with untidy brown hair, wearing a dark green jacket—and the young woman notices him too, leaping up from the bench with a cry and throwing herself at him.

The force of the hug sends them spinning into a clumsy circle, both of them laughing, and Lucas knew, he knew from the moment he saw the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his neck that it was him, but as they turn towards the door, he sees Demaury’s face, open and happy, and he gasps, taking a step back.

Through the crack between the doors, two sets of curious eyes stare back at him.

He turns, and he flees.

He nearly trips down the staircase and he swears under his breath, cursing himself and his decision to follow the music to that door, curses the decision to come here in the first place, to _his_ home. Demaury’s home.

_Forget the carriage_ , Lucas thinks wildly, bursting out of the front doors into the bright sunshine, squinting into the glare from the lake. _I’ll walk back to the inn. How long could it take? A few hours? Half a day?_

But as he reaches the staircase down to the front walk, there’s a voice calling his name, and the sound of rapid footsteps approaching.

Lucas shuts his eyes tightly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, and he turns around.

“Mr. Lallemant,” Demaury says, slowing to a walk. His jacket is hanging open, his cravat is undone and his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, baring the base of his pale throat. His hair is an unkempt mess, falling into his eyes and blowing in the breeze like a storming sea, thick tufts sticking up like waves.

Lucas has never seen him so dishevelled. It’s as though someone took the image of Demaury, pristine and perfect, and cut the threads loose to let him unravel.

He realizes he’s breathing hard, and he lets out one sharp exhale, lowering his eyes to the ground, ordering his heart to slow to a normal pace.

“I…” He raises his eyes again, then immediately looks away, focusing on a vacant window just over Demaury’s left shoulder. “I didn’t realize you were home,” he says quickly. “I’m so sorry, I would never have come if I had known, I swear. She said the house was open, and we—”

Demaury shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I’m, um, back a day early. From a trip.”

Lucas presses his lips together, nodding.

“How are you?” Demaury asks softly.

Lucas blinks. “Um. Yes.” He smooths his hands down the front of his jacket, wiping away the sweat on his palms. “Good, thank you.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m travelling.” Lucas says, waving a hand towards the road that disappears into the tree line. “Through Loiret. With friends.”

Demaury nods.

“Castles. You know.”

“Of course.”

“Yes.” Lucas bites down on his lip to try and keep himself from speaking again, lest he continue to spew complete nonsense.

“Where are you staying?” Demaury asks.

Lucas points towards the road again, as if they could possibly see the inn from where they stand. “Le Cygne Blanc, in Orléans.”

“Ah. I’ve heard they have a decent scotch selection.”

They fall silent again, looking at each other and looking away, too unsure of what to say now, and all too aware of everything that’s been said before.

Lucas fidgets, shifting on the stone step. The sun is too warm on the back of his neck and his shirt is beginning to stick to him underneath his waistcoat. He wants to throw himself into the lake and stay submerged until Demaury and his waves of hair disappear to leave him in peace.

“Well.” Lucas gives Demaury an awkward bow. “Again, I’m sorry to intrude, and I’ll just…go now.”

“Wait.” Demaury takes a step forward, one of his hands reaching out. Lucas stares down at the hand with wide eyes, and Demaury retracts it, his arm falling back to his side. “Where are your friends?”

“Oh.” Lucas huffs, making a show of glancing over his shoulder, and his eyes land on the empty space where the carriage used to be. “They’re around,” he says at length.

“If you came on a carriage, which, obviously you must have, how would you get here if not in carriage?” Demaury gives a strangled laugh, running a hand through his hair. The motion causes his collar to droop open further and Lucas is not looking, he is _not_ —“Then they may have gone to the stables.” He points to the far end of the house. “There’s water and hay for the horses there.”

Lucas is relieved to be given the escape. “Yes. Alright, well I’ll go find them now—”

“Would you like to stay for tea?” Demaury asks in a rush, taking another step forward. Lucas blinks at him, his mouth hanging open. “Or for dinner,” Demaury continues. “You’re all welcome to stay. My sister, Daphné, she would love to meet you.”

“Your sister,” Lucas says faintly.

Demaury nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Lucas feels himself beginning to fold under the warmth of it, that smile. He inhales slowly, squinting towards the stables. “Well, I would need to ask them, because we had plans to—”

“Lucas! There you are!”

_Of course_. Demaury turns to follow the sound, and Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, exhaling.

They’re bounding towards them from the front door, waving excitedly.

“We thought we lost you!” Basile calls. “We saw the wine cellar, it is _unbelievable_! I had half a mind to take a bottle or two, but—”

“Yes that’s great, Basile!” Lucas interrupts him, his voice rising an entire octave. He extends a hand towards Demaury narrowing his eyes at them. “May I introduce the both of you to Mr. Demaury, who happens to be the _owner_ of this estate.”

Arthur and Basile both stop short, blinking at Demaury, then at Lucas, then at Demaury again.

Neither of them speak for one long, awkward moment.

Then Basile says, “God, he was right. You _are_ handsome.”

Lucas stifles a groan. The option of throwing himself into the lake grows more appealing with every passing second.

Arthur looks as though he’s regretting not leaving Basile behind in the cellar, but Demaury laughs, tucking his chin towards his chest. “Well. Thank you,” he says warmly. “I don’t know who you heard that from, but it’s very kind.”

“Oh! I heard it from L—”

“These are the friends I mentioned,” Lucas says loudly, striding towards them, sending Basile the most withering look he can muster. “This is Basile Savary,” he says, gesturing towards them in turn. “And Arthur Broussard.”

“This is a beautiful estate.” Arthur tells Demaury, placing a hand over his heart. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

Demaury ducks his chin again, sending a smile towards the ground. “I really cannot take any credit for it, but I thank you. I’m just very lucky.”

Basile steps towards Demaury, holding out a hand and beaming at him. “Thank you for letting us look around. I was joking about the wine, of course.”

After a moment, Demaury shakes it.

“You could have,” he says easily. “There’s far too much down there for us to drink ourselves.”

Basile gets a glint in his eyes as though really considering the offer, and Arthur grins, shaking his head.

“Careful with that generosity, Mr. Demaury. You may regret it when Bas tries to make off with an entire case.”

“I would not,” Basile says, offended, and Lucas drops his head into his hands, letting out a helpless laugh. Somehow, Demaury seems amused by the spectacle of Arthur and Basile rather than annoyed by them, and Lucas is infinitely grateful for it.

When he raises his head again, Demaury is looking directly at him.

His eyes match the sky again.

Arthur coughs, and Lucas startles, drawing his gaze back towards them, flushing when he sees Arthur’s raised eyebrows.

“Demaury.” Arthur says suddenly. “We were going to return to our inn for dinner, and then some well-deserved scotch. It’s a place called Le Cygne Blanc, in Orléans. Would you care to join us?”

Lucas’ flush deepens. He bites down on his lip, watching Demaury as he blinks at Arthur, his lips parted slightly.

“Oh.” He murmurs. The corners of his mouth turn up. “That’s very kind, thank you.” He glances over at Lucas, as though searing for something there. “I would like to accept, but I would also like to extend my own offer, for you all to dine with us tonight. We could pick a bottle from the cellar to open.”

Basile looks euphoric at the idea. “We’d _love_ to!”

Arthur nods happily. Lucas considers the lake one final time.

“Is there a driver with you?” Demaury asks. When Arthur tells him yes, he says, “Please invite him as well. I’ll ensure that there’s enough food.”

He turns towards Lucas, hesitating.

“I will…” He waves a hand back towards the house. “Madeleine can show you where to go.”

Lucas can only nod, accepting the hand of fate that has been dealt to him as gracefully as he can—that, it seems, he’s going to dine with Mr. Demaury tonight, whether he wishes to or not.

And that’s just it. He doesn’t know if he wishes to, or not.

“Alright.” Demaury moves to straighten his jacket, then feeling the front of it falling open, glances down, and seems shocked to realize that the top buttons of his shirt are undone. “Right,” he says, and he turns away from them, rushing back up the other set of stairs to the door.

All three of them watch him go. As soon as he disappears from sight, Lucas punches Basile in the arm. Hard.

Basile yelps, clutching at his arm, stumbling away on the steps.

“What? Why did you do that?”

“Are you serious, Bas? You told the man _to his face_ that you wanted to steal his wine.”

Basile frowns at him, rubbing at the spot Lucas punched. “But he seems fine with it. Actually, he seems really nice, Lucas. Not like you described him at all.”

“It’s true.” Arthur says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought you said he was rude.”

“He _is_. I mean, I did.” Lucas huffs in frustration, throwing his hands out. “I said that I only know him a little!”

“Well this is a great opportunity to get to know him more!” Arthur says brightly, clapping Lucas on the shoulder. “Come on.” He steers him down the stairs, leading towards the front walk. “Let’s see if we can find Herman.”

Herman is easy to find, lounging in the stables with two other men, all of them smoking pipes with their feet propped up onto bales of hay, while the horses resting in shaded stalls.

He comes with them easily, waving off the other two men who settle in to watch the horses, buttoning his jacket back up and dousing his pipe.

“What’s he like, then?” He asks as they wander back towards the house. “The famed young Demaury?”

“He’s great,” Basile says enthusiastically, at the same moment Lucas says, “He’s fine.”

Herman sends them both a wry smile. “Interesting,” he says, and Lucas looks away.

Madeleine greets them when they arrive at the front door, leading them back up to the parlour Lucas first stumbled upon, only this time, the doors are opened wide, and they’re both waiting for them: Demaury, with his cravat now tied and his jacket buttoned, and Daphné.

She both is and is not what Lucas expected. She’s pretty, with wide green eyes and a sweet smile, but there’s a shrewdness in her gaze that surprises him. It gives him the impression that she could at every person in the room and correctly guess the thoughts in their heads.

“May I present,” Demaury says grandly, “my sister, Miss Daphné.”

Lucas and Arthur both bow, Basile only following suit after Arthur nudges him in the side.

“Daphné, I present to you, Mr. Arthur Broussard, Mr. Basile Savary, and Mr. Lucas Lallemant.”

“Mr. Lallemant.” Daphné reaches for Lucas’ hands. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She squeezes his fingers, her smile widening. “I feel as though we are friends already.”

“Ah, thank you.” Lucas says, glancing over her shoulder at Demaury, whose cheeks are flushed. “I heard you playing earlier.” He nods towards the piano forte. “You were brilliant.”

“Ah, so that _was_ you.” Daphné giggles when Lucas smiles sheepishly. “Well, then, I must ask you to play a duet with me tonight.”

Lucas balks. “A duet.”

“Mhm.” Daphné glances at Demaury over her shoulder. “My brother says you play very well.”

“Did he?” Lucas says dryly, his gaze returning to Demaury, one eyebrow arched. “ _Very well_ , now? That is even more complimentary than _quite well_.”

And at that, Demaury laughs.

Not the polite, quiet laughter Lucas has seen him make before. There’s no barely-there smile or lowered eyes. This is Demaury smiling widely, showing all of his teeth. This is his eyes curving into half-moons, crinkling at the corners.

Every thought in Lucas’ head turns to air.

“Actually, I believe the phrase was _quite well_ ,” Demaury says, still grinning. “She has misquoted me.”

“Oh, perhaps I did.” Daphné says sweetly. “My mistake, Eliott. It’s just difficult to remember when you talk about him so often.”

Demaury makes a sour face at her. Next to Lucas, Arthur coughs delicately.

“Well.” Daphné turns back to them with a smile. “That duet later, Mr. Lallemant?”

“Sure.” Lucas agrees faintly, and Daphné nods, satisfied.

She turns away from them, and Basile leans in to Lucas’ shoulder.

“Lucas,” he whispers, “I think I’m in love.”

Throughout the entirety of dinner, Basile stares at Daphné as though she’s a figment from his dreams come to life. At regular intervals, Arthur has to hiss at him to stop staring, while Lucas takes to kicking him underneath he table whenever a question is posed to him and he can’t answer because he’s too focused on staring at her.

Daphné, for her part, seems not to mind Basile’s attention, or is entirely indifferent to it, carrying on conversation with barely a glance his way.

It’s entertaining to watch, at least. A distraction from the way Eliott’s eyes curl when he smiles, from the sound of his laughter, so freely given within the confines of his own home.

Lucas tries to reconcile this Demaury, the one who laughs loudly and generously invites strangers to dinner, the one who’s shy to receive compliments and attention, with the one that he first met in Allier. It’s strange to imagine that they are the same person, but then, Lucas knows something of hiding parts of yourself away from prying eyes.

He wonders, if he had Demaury under better circumstances, if Demaury had been more comfortable at the Cazas ball, if he would have been like this from the first moment they met.

It’s dizzying, to think of how different everything between them would have been, if that was he case.

But how different? How different would it be from what Lucas feels in that moment, sitting in Demaury’s dining room, wondering what he could say to get a full smile from Demaury. What he could say to make him laugh.

Demaury notices him staring, raising his eyes to find Lucas’ over the top of his wine glass, and Lucas flushes, looking down at his empty plate.

Perhaps such shyness is catching.

Dinner is finished, and they return to the parlour for cards, with Daphné claiming that she can easily win back any money that she lays down in a bet. It’s a challenge that Herman seems incapable of resisting, and they turn down the hallway with their arms linked, teasing each other good-naturedly while Basile and Arthur follow them closely: Arthur in silent amusement, Basile in outward agony.

Demaury stays behind in the dining room, telling everyone to go on without him while he assists the staff, and Lucas finds himself lingering at the back of the group, taking the opportunity of a moment without Demaury’s or Madeleine’s presence to do something that he’s been wanting to do for hours.

He turns down the opposite direction of the hallway, taking care to slip quietly past the dining room entrance, turning another corner and following that hallway until he finds it again.

The drawing room is dark inside, illuminated only by the reach of the candles from the hallway and the glow of the rising moon pouring in from the balcony doors. Lucas glances over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone has followed him, and when he sees only the empty hall, he steps inside, moving directly towards the telescope.

His hands hover just above it, scared to touch when, even in the darkness of the room, he can still make out the pristine shine of the brass.

Never used.

His fingers twitch.

“You can touch it, if you want.”

Lucas lets out a strangled cry, pivoting on his heels. When he sees Demaury’s silhouette in the hallway, he lets out a relieved exhale.

“You scared me,” Lucas murmurs, pressing a hand to his chest. “God, why do you always do that?”

He realizes the moment he says the words, that the last time Demaury did that was when they were under the stone pavilion together, a storm unfurling around them, between them.

Neither of them acknowledge the lingering memory.

“Apologies,” Demaury says, stepping into the room. “I came in here only for this.” He lifts a book from the small table between the two arm chairs. “Voltaire,” he adds by way of explanation. “ _Candide_. For Mr. Leplein.” The moonlight frames Demaury’s hands as he turns the book over, trailing a finger down its cover. “He says he’s never had a chance to read it.”

Lucas hums, turning back towards the telescope.

“You wouldn’t mind?” He asks, after a moment. “If I touched it?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Lucas slowly lowers his hands to it, nearly gasping when they reach the cool brass. They trail across its surface, curving around the body, catching on the smooth edges. It’s beautiful, elegant and powerful, modern in its make, and Lucas aches with the possibility of what he would be able to see with this. His sketches would become so much more detailed, his maps more expansive, far more accurate than they’ve ever been.

“Incredible,” he whispers, and he hears Demaury shift behind him, the floor creaking under his feet.

“Do you like it?” Demaury asks hesitantly.

Lucas lets out a delirious laugh. Does he like it? He wants to _cry_. “I like it.” He bends down to inspect the eyepiece, running a finger along its edges reverently. “I’m very fond of the stars,” he tells him, his gaze drifting towards the balcony doors, to sky just beyond their glass.

“Yes.” Demaury says, as soft as moonlight. “I know.”

There’s something in his voice, something pained and honest, and Lucas rises from his crouch, turning towards him, and Demaury is closer than he thought he was, close enough that Lucas could reach out and touch him. If he wanted to.

For one single moment, they do nothing but watch each other in the darkness.

“Lucas,” Demaury says, and Lucas’ head swims with how his name sounds in his voice. As intimate as a caress.

He wants to hear it again.

“Lucas!” Another voice calls, echoing down the hallway. Lucas drops his hands from the telescope and Demaury drops the Voltaire, the book landing on the wood floor with a jarringly loud _smack_.

“Lucas?” The voice calls again, searching, and Demaury bends down to retrieve the book, then takes one long step away, turning his back towards the balcony doors.

Arthur appears in the doorway, holding a candlestick. When he sees Demaury, he stops, letting out a surprised noise of recognition.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was looking for Lucas.”

“He’s—” Demaury begins, at the same time Lucas says, “I’m here,” stepping away from the shadows in the corner. His entire body feels as thought it is flushing with embarrassment.

He can only imagine what it looks like, to find the two of them in a dark room together. If it were someone other than Lucas, perhaps it would look like nothing at all, no more than a somewhat peculiar moment. But Lucas has noticed the way Arthur has been looking at him and Demaury that night. It’s the same way he always looks at an equation, with careful, open consideration.

“Is everything alright?” Demaury asks, and Lucas is opening his mouth to answer when he realizes he’s addressing Arthur.

“It’s fine,” Arthur says, his voice giving nothing away to whatever he might be thinking. “Daphné just went to bed, and Herman is feeling tired, so he asked if we could leave soon.”

The butterfly underneath Lucas’ ribs, flitting and fluttering from the moment he heard Herman first say _Arbrenne_ , has been flattened, wild excitement being ground to a halt, and he knows, so clearly and so completely, that his disappointment is not just reserved for a missed opportunity with the brand new telescope.

“Sure,” he says with a sigh. He makes to leave the room without glancing back at Demaury, without looking at Arthur, without doing anything aside from keeping his eyes fixed to his feet.

Except, Arthur speaks before he can cross into the hallway.

“Why don’t you come with us, Demaury? It’s not so late that we can’t all have a drink together.”

“Really?” Demaury glances out of the balcony doors, the moonlight washing over his profile. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose on you, and to go all the way there, then—”

“Nonsense.” Arthur says with a grin, waving his hand flippantly through the air. “The ride is short, and the scotch is excellent. Come with us.”

Demaury hesitates, and his gaze lands on Lucas’ face—searching, just as it was before, on the steps. Looking for something.

This time, Lucas knows what it is. He gives it to him.

“One drink, Mr. Demaury?” He asks lightly.

Demaury smiles, his eyes crinkling into moons. “One drink.”

Herman leaves right away, so they all go with Demaury, piling into his covered carriage, nestling into the padded benches and soft upholstery.

Lucas rest his temple against the window, watching with a smile as Arthur and Basile recount another trip of theirs to Demaury, a vacation in Scotland that took a number of disastrous turns. Lucas has heard the story before, but it’s even more entertaining to hear it again with Demaury’s reactions, to see the places where his eyes widen appropriately, to hear him laugh so hard that he snorts when Basile gets to the part with the cows.

And in turn, Demaury tells a story of a disastrous trip he recently took to Switzerland—a story filled with a shocking, delighting, amount of cursing—that has them all roaring with laughter by the end.

“I like him,” Arthur had said to Lucas as they were leaving, buttoning his jacket tightly against the cool evening air.

“Who?” Lucas asked absently, and Arthur just laughed, squeezing his shoulder.

“He seems like a good man,” he told him, and even now, as they arrive back at the inn, Lucas has no idea what to make of that.

It’s busy when they enter, with all of the evening parties still alive and well in the restaurant. It’s nearly too busy to find a table, and while they’re in the process of trying to locate one, Lucas is stopped by one of the housekeepers.

“Lallemant, is it?” She asks, craning her neck towards the stairwell. “There’s someone upstairs to see you.”

Lucas exchanges a confused glance with Arthur, who shrugs.

“What is it?” Demaury leans over to ask.

Lucas tilts his head up towards him, to say lowly into his ear, “There’s someone upstairs, apparently. Waiting for me.”

Demaury raises an eyebrow. “Expecting someone?”

They make their way upstairs in silence, all of them, like some sort of band of officers, but even with the silent support of the other three behind him, Lucas still hesitates at his door.

He’s not entirely sure why, but he does, his hand hovering over the doorknob, attempting to build a mental list of all the people it could possibly be, when the knob turns on its own, the door swinging open, and Lucas takes a step back, his hands flying up in defence.

“God, where have you been?”

Lucas’ hands lower from his face. “Manon?”

“Come on.” She grips onto his arm, pulling him into the room. “All of you, I guess. Come on.”

She slams the door behind them and locks it, pressing her back against the wood. She’s wearing men’s clothes, and her hair is braided back hastily, tucked into her collar. There are deep, dark circles under her eyes.

“Manon.” Lucas says slowly. “What’s going on?”

She lowers her gaze, swallowing heavily before she speaks.

“I made a mistake, Lucas,” she says. “And I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you next friday, for the final chapter 🌟


	4. a constellation of hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which there is no ending, only new beginnings
> 
> here we are!
> 
> it feels as though i've been working on this story for ages, but since i've started posting it, the time has gone by so quickly, that it feels strange to be finishing this - i don't know what i'm going to do with myself now asdfjk
> 
> i need to give a few trigger warnings for this chapter, all of them related to the first scene:
> 
> in it, there are brief instances of ableism, homophobia, emotional abuse and manipulation, alcoholism, and violence. my version of wickham is even worse than the original, and he does not deserve a happy ending of any sort. if you'd like to skip this scene, then i would recommend going right down to the paragraph break that begins with "They leave the inn carrying..." please read carefully, and be kind to yourself
> 
> and that's all for me - i hope you enjoy this chapter, and that all of the love and romance that live within it are able to carry you away for a little while 💛

The room is silent as Manon crosses to the fireplace.

Arthur is standing by the door, with his arms crossed over his chest and his back pressed to the wall. Basile has lowered himself to the trunk at the foot of the bed, wide eyes drifting between Manon and Lucas. Demaury paces by the window, worrying his lips between his teeth, his eyebrows furrowed tightly together, and Lucas stands behind the armchair facing the fireplace, his hands planted on top of the backrest.

“Start at the beginning,” he says.

Manon nods, wringing her hands together anxiously. She takes a deep breath.

“You know that Mr. Munier and I have been writing to each other for a while now, and we’ve been…making plans. Not well-conceived plans, nothing that I thought would happen right away, but we’ve been discussing some things. Things like marriage.”

Lucas closes his eyes, letting out a pained sigh. The very thing he’d been worried about ever since he returned from Bourgogne.

Behind him, he hears the sound of Demaury’s footsteps falter, and his heart clenches.

They very thing Demaury warned him about.

“He said that he loved me,” Manon continues, her voice wavering. Her hands fall flat to her sides. “He promised me so many things. And even now I don’t know if I loved him back, but…” She shrugs, then laughs, the sound coming out choked and wet. “It felt so good to be pursued like that. It was so _exciting_ , and I fell for it. Completely fell.”

God if that isn't something Lucas knows all too well. Falling for the first hint of affection, for the very possibility of something more.

Dread, cloying and sickening, sits heavy in his gut.

“So, the plans start becoming more real. Charles—Mr. Munier—he begins talking about where we can get married, and I, you know, I wanted us to get married in Hérisson. I wanted you,” she raises her eyes to Lucas, “Emma, Alexia, Mama and Papa to be there. Mama was so interested in him, and would get so excited whenever a letter from him would arrive, and the rest of you seemed so supportive. I thought it was going to be perfect, I really did. But, one day, I get a letter that’s vastly different from the others. He said that he didn’t think Mama and Papa wanted him to be a part of the family, that they probably thought he was beneath me, and then he also said that he…” Manon’s eyes lower, and even from across the room, in the pale glow cast from the fireplace, Lucas can see how her cheeks redden. “He said he didn’t want you there, Lucas. He said, well he said some things about you that—” She stops, pressing her lips into a thin line, and at once Lucas knows, with burning embarrassment, what Munier must have said to Manon about him.

_Your cousin, Lucas._

_He’s in love with me, I know he is. He’s a pervert. He’s a degenerate. How could you not know, when you’ve been living with him for so long?_

He remembers the way his heart fluttered when Munier touched his arm, wonders at how deliberate a move like that must have been, wonders if he suspected from the first moment he saw Lucas, and suddenly he feels sick. He wants to throw himself out of a window to avoid the hesitantly curious looks that are being directed at him now.

“But none of that matters.” Manon says sharply, slicing a hand through the air. “What he said about you, it doesn’t matter. All that you need to know is, with that letter, he essentially was telling me why we couldn’t get married. He said it would never work between us, that my family was a concern, that he thought I was indifferent. So,” she squares her shoulders back, “I grew desperate. I was so taken with him, with the idea of us being together, that I told him I would do anything, just so long as he still married me. I wasn’t thinking about anything else, not Mama or Papa, not Emma or Alexia, not the house, not you, Lucas. There was nothing except him. I could barely sleep that entire week before I received a reply from him, but eventually, I did. He wrote me, saying that if we were going to be together, then we had to elope.”

Demaury’s pacing has stopped again. Lucas can only imagine how he feels, watching history repeat itself right before his eyes.

“When I received the invitation to visit Brest, everything seemed to fall into place. We made plans for me to get away from Beauregard’s for a day, and to…well, to run away together.”

She laughs, then, a laugh that is all biting self-deprecation and delirious exhaustion, her shoulders shaking underneath her wool jacket.

“It was the worst decision I could have made. And I’ve always prided myself on being smart, haven’t I? I never thought I would do something like that, in my entire life. I can’t…” She gives another hysterical laugh. “I can’t believe how _fucking_ stupid I was.”

“Manon,” Lucas says, but she holds her palm up to him, shaking her head.

“Lucas, I’m sorry, please just let me finish.”

Lucas nods, pressing his lips together.

“I thought I was in love. Or at least, I thought love was happening to me. There was nothing I’d ever felt like it, and I—” She groans, dropping her face into her hands. “ _Fuck_.” After a moment she sniffs, lifting it again. “I went to Brest. I brought whatever clothes I could carry, and every bit of money I had saved. All I could think about, the entire journey there, was seeing him again. Being with him. I had to wait three days before he arrived and they felt like three years. It was agony. But finally, the morning of my fourth day there, I feigned sick so everyone left without me for the day, I packed up again, and he came for me that afternoon, in a carriage. God, when I think about how excited I was, how little I cared for anything or anyone else, it…” She shakes her head. “It’s just shameful.” She smoothes both hands over her head, her fingertips catching on flyaway strands of hair that fall from her braid. “We wanted to go south. To Bordeaux, initially, and then to Bayonne, then possibly into Spain. I wanted to go to Marseille, but he thought leaving France would be better for us.”

 _Of course he would_ , Lucas thinks, his hands tightening on the backrest, the thick upholstery crumpling under his fingers. _It would be harder to find them that way_.

“But to begin, we had to travel inland again, and on that very first night, we stopped in Rennes, because he had to meet someone there. It was for a business transaction, he said, and all I knew was that it was going to get us more money for our journey. I was happy about that, because so far we had only used mine, for food and for a room for the night.” She flushes from the implication of her own words, but doesn't linger on them, her eyes fixed on a point over Lucas’ shoulder. “I knew my savings would run out quickly, but since he seemed to have a plan I didn’t say anything about it. Except, something went wrong that night, with his meeting. He wouldn’t tell me what, but his mood completely changed. He wasn’t kind anymore, or doting. He became impatient, and as the night went on, he became harsh. Cruel.”

“Manon.” A wave of horror washes over Lucas. “Did he hurt you?”

At length Manon says, “No. But he said things. It started with him making a comment about money, specifically how he doesn’t have any. He even told me that he’s in debt, and that he owes significant amounts of money to some people who desperately want it back. I was worried for him, so I told him I would try to help, but I only had so much myself. He was confused by this. He asked me about our family, about our money, and when I laughed and told him that all we have is the house, and that’s going to you, he became angry. So angry that he upended a table in our room, nearly broke a window, and when I yelled at him to stop, he just left, without another word. I was…I was so scared. I’d never seen him like that before, and I had no idea what to do. I was in a town I didn’t know, staying at an inn with this man who, I was beginning to realize, I didn’t know either.”

Lucas pictures her, alone and frightened and so unsure of what to do, and he wants to cry. _I could have stopped this_ , he thinks, and his heart splinters into shards. _I could have stopped all of this._

“I wanted to leave right there and then, but I didn’t know where to go, or what my first step would even be, and before I could make a plan of any kind, he came back, so drunk he was tripping over his own feet. He acted as though nothing had happened, trying to call me his _wife_ , trying to kiss me, but I wouldn’t let him. I told him I was tired, or that I had a headache, I just made something up, and he complained, grew frustrated, but eventually he passed out, and that was when I left. I took all of the money that remained and found a carriage to take me here.”

“Why here?”

“I was too ashamed to go home to Mama and Papa. Not to mention it was all I could afford, and I knew you were staying here with Arthur and Basile.”

“Where did you…” Arthur says, gesturing vaguely at her. “Where did you find the clothes?”

Manon glances down at herself, as though she's surprised to see she’s still wearing men’s clothes. “Oh.” She licks her lips. “I don’t know, actually. There was a pile of laundry in the hallway, from one of the maids cleaning out a room, and I saw these in the pile, so I...stole them.” She winces. “I thought it would be best if I tried to disguise myself, in case he tried to follow me.”

“Has he followed you?” Lucas asks darkly. His dread has rotted into something meaner, something demanding action, something that feels a lot like wanting to run Munier through with a sword.

“I don’t know how, but—” Manon sighs, running her hands over her face again. “He was drunk and angry, and I had no idea who he would be when he woke again, so I took precautions. I tried to disguise myself, and I found a public carriage that was leaving right away, and that was it. I travelled all night and all morning to get here, and since then, I’ve been waiting for you to return. Lucas, I need help to get back to Allier, and I need—I need you to come with me, because I can’t stop thinking about him following me, finding me, and I don’t know what will happen if he does. I don’t know what he wants anymore.”

She stops, taking a long, deep breath.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Arthur mutters under his breath. He looks as murderous as Lucas feels.

“Manon, I’m so sorry.” Lucas says brokenly. “I’m sorry this has happened, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you, I’m so—”

“Lucas, no.” Manon says sternly, still comforting Lucas, even now. Always the big sister. “This is my mistake. Not anyone else’s.”

“But—”

“It’s not your fault.”

The interruption from Demaury surprises them all. Everyone turns towards his voice except Lucas, who can feel the impact of his footsteps on the floor, the warmth of his body at his back.

“It isn’t.” Demaury says softly, and Lucas doesn’t know if he’s talking to him or to Manon or to both of them. “He lied to you. He took advantage of you.” His voice is harder to add, “It’s what he does.”

“What do you mean?” Manon asks. Hesitantly, like she already knows the answer he’s going to give, but she doesn’t want to hear it.

“I’ve known him for a long time. He tried to run off with my younger sister, years ago, when she wasn’t even sixteen.”

And at this, Manon’s face crumples. “Oh.” She looks down to the floor. “Oh, God, I’ve been so _blind_.”

“Manon, you didn’t know!” Lucas protests. _It’s my fault. I’m the one who’s been blind. About everything._

“He’s charming.” Demaury says with a grimace. “He has a gift of manipulation. I’ve seen many well-minded people fall prey to it. Do not blame yourself. Please.”

Lucas is feeling too many things to even begin to name. He wants to rush over to Manon and hug her, wants to take her hands and tell her everything, that this is Lucas’ fault and he should have warned her, should have trusted himself more and trusted Munier less. He wants to find a horse and hunt down Munier, wants to make him answer for everything he’s done, wants to make him feel even a sliver of what Manon is feeling right now. And he wants— _God_ he wants to lean into Demaury’s warmth, to bury his face into his solid shoulder and let Demaury tell him that everything will be alright.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he does all of these things, and none of them. He lays a hand on Demaury’s arm, for just a moment, and meets his eyes, trying to convey every ounce of gratefulness he feels. Then he brushes past him, moving towards the fireplace and pulling Manon into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into his hair. Manon shudders against him, her arms wrapping around his ribs. “Manon, there’s something that I have to tell you, about him. There are a few things, actually, but for right now, we just need to get you home safe, so I think we should—”

But then, with a reverb that echoes down to Lucas’ bones, comes three booming knocks to the door.

The room falls silent. Arthur leaps away from the door as though it’s on fire, his eyes wide when he turns back to Lucas and Manon.

They wait in a tense silence, for one minute, two minutes, three.

 _It can’t be him_ , Lucas thinks wildly. _It can’t._

Manon is gripping onto his arm so tightly the skin has begun to turn white under her fingers.

Another minute.

Then—“Manon? Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Not a sound is uttered in the room, but the effect is immediate. Arthur takes another horrified step back from the door. Basile rises from the trunk, disbelief evident on his face. Manon pales, her breath coming out in a small, quiet gasp. Demaury’s shoulders stiffen, and his mouth sets into a deep scowl, full of contempt.

There’s another knock against the wood. “Darling, please let me in. I just want to talk to you.” Munier’s voice sounds soft, consoling. It makes Lucas’ stomach turn.

A round of glances are exchanged, all of them silently coming to the conclusion that, if they stay quiet, he should eventually give up and leave.

“The innkeeper told me that you’re here. I know you haven’t left all day.”

Another round of glances. Another, more hesitant, agreement to stay silent.

“ _Manon_.” Munier bangs on the door again, a desperate pleading in his voice.

When Lucas looks over at Manon again, she doesn’t look scared. Her eyes are hard, her mouth is pressed into her a firm line, and her grip has loosened on Lucas’ arm, her shoulders squaring back.

She looks angry. She looks like she’s preparing for a fight.

_Oh God._

“Leave me alone.” She calls out sharply, and the banging on the door stops. “Our engagement is off, Charles. Go home.”

“Manon, please.” There’s a shuffling behind the door, something brushing against the wood like he’s pressing himself against it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for whatever it is you think I did.”

“What I _think_ you’ve done?” Manon asks incredulously. She drops Lucas’ arm, taking a step towards the door. “I think that you are a drunk, a gambler, and a liar. I think that you never even loved me.”

“That’s not true! Sweetheart, I love you. You know that I love you.”

“I don’t know a thing about you.” Manon snaps. “You’re a stranger to me. Now, will you just please leave?”

There’s a pause behind the door, watched nervously by all of them, a hint of relief seeping into the room through the cracked-open window because _maybe he’s going to leave, maybe they won’t have to—_

“I’m not leaving. Not until I can see you.”

Manon lets out a frustrated whine, turning away from the door and running her hands over her head, more strands of hair falling out of her braid, falling around her face like wisps of smoke.

It’s enough. Lucas has seen enough.

He gently touches Manon’s arm. “I’m going to let him in, alright? But you’ll be safe with us. We’re going to talk to him and make him leave. That’s all.”

Manon nods, moving behind the armchair. “Alright.” She lets out a shaky breath. “Alright.”

Demaury places himself beside her, his eyes narrowed menacingly at the door.

With a great and sudden clarity, Lucas remembers Demaury’s letter, when he asked Lucas not to be afraid of him.

_There is no name for this illness, no accepted definition, no understanding, and for that some people are wary of me._

Lucas has thought many things about Demaury, in the small amount of time he’s known him, but he has never been wary of him. He’s never been afraid of him.

And even now, watching the way Demaury stands tall, his hands flexing at his sides, looking furious beyond belief, Lucas isn’t afraid of him. He looks at him, and all he can think is, _I’m so glad you’re here_.

There’s no time for him to analyze that thought, to pick it apart and peer into its depths, to try and determine the origins of it like he normally would, so Lucas just lets it sit, for one fleeting moment.

Then another bang on the door comes, and Lucas is lifting his chin, searching within himself for a dim star of courage, and he’s walking towards the door, flanked by Arthur and Basile, all three of them nodding at each other before Lucas unlocks the door, and opens it.

Munier must have been leaning into it, because he stumbles inside, a smug, relieved smile on his face melting into something shocked and unpleasant when his eyes land on Lucas.

Munier rights himself, tugging on the ends of his jacket and smoothing a hand over his hair. “Where is she, Lallemant?”

“She doesn’t want to see you,” Lucas says bluntly. “And I need to ask you to leave.”

“She doesn’t?” Munier cranes his neck to try and see around Arthur, standing behind Lucas with his arms crossed over his chest. “Then why won’t she tell me that herself?”

Lucas gapes at him. “She already did. You just won’t listen to her.”

Munier seems to absorb this, then tries a new tactic, turning pleading eyes onto Lucas, lowering his voice. “Lallemant, please. I just need to see her. Just for one moment. You care about me, don’t you? You want to help me.”

A memory of a touch ghosts across Lucas’ arm and he feels bile rise in his throat.

“You’re wrong,” he bites out. “I don’t care about you. And neither does she. Now goodbye.” He pushes the door closed, but a strong arm blocks it, gripping tightly to the wood and shoving it back open, the force of it making both Lucas and Basile stumble backwards.

“ _No_.” Munier strides into the room, eyes wild, slipping out of Arthur’s grip when he tries to hold him back. “Manon, I need to see you, I need to—” He stops in the middle of the room, falling silent when he sees Manon, staring back at him fiercely from behind the armchair, and Demaury, a looming presence at her side.

Arthur, Lucas, and Basile rush to surround him, effectively creating a wall between him and Manon.

The fireplace crackles, sparks firing out into the room, the bright flames casting Munier’s face into twisted shadow. There’s an ugly sneer warping his features, eating the tail-end of desperation, and Lucas can see it now, exactly what Manon said to Munier before. _You’re a stranger to me_.

Munier lets out a laugh that has edges like broken glass. “Oh, look who we have here!” He leers towards Demaury. “Come to be someone else’s hero, have you?”

Demaury doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to. The way he cocks his head at Munier, clear disdain and pity written across his features, says enough for him.

“Charles,” Manon says slowly, clearly, her hands laying flat on the armchair’s backrest. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here. Our engagement is off. I don’t love you. There’s nothing for you to do but leave.”

Munier flinches at her words. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.” Manon stresses, exhaustion seeping into her voice. “I want you to leave, Charles, and I never want to see you again.”

Munier flounders, unsure of how to proceed as though this is the last possibility he imagined taking place, and Lucas takes a step closer to him, holding a placating hand out.

“Just leave, Munier. You’re only making a fool of yourself.”

It’s the wrong choice of words, though, because as soon as they’re out, Munier rounds on him, gripping onto Lucas’ wrist so tightly it twinges in pain.

“You think so, Lallemant? Do you really want to talk about what’s foolish?”

Basile and Arthur surge forward, reaching for Munier, but Lucas shakes his head at them, frowning. Even in this moment, when the pulse of fear throbs at the base of his skull, Lucas is thinking of self-preservation. He’s thinking of what Munier can say, thinking of how easily he could unfurl Lucas’ secrets for everyone to hear.

“Don’t,” Lucas hisses, trying to snatch his wrist away, but Munier only digs his fingers in deeper. “Munier, don’t do this.”

Munier lets out a bark of a laugh. “Because _I_ think what’s really foolish is being so pathetically desperate for attention, that you’ll fall for anything.” Munier’s other hand ghosts down Lucas’ arm. “I knew it the moment I first spoke with you. I knew you were one of _them_. And I knew that it would only take one small moment, one single touch, for you to believe you were in love. How very tragic you are, Mr. Lallemant.” His fingers dig into the hollow of Lucas’ elbow. His voice lowers, dripping with venom. “You disgust me.”

“Enough.” Demaury forces himself between them, pushing Lucas behind himself with one arm, shoving away Munier with the other, and Arthur and Basile seize their opportunity, each of them taking hold of his arms and dragging him towards the door. Lucas peers around Demaury’s shoulder, watches as Munier wrenches himself free, a stray elbow catching Basile in the side of the head, making him grunt in pain.

“There he is!” Munier taunts Demaury, throwing his arms out to his sides. “This is a little too familiar, isn’t it Demaury? Once again, you’ve foiled my attempts at matrimonial bliss.” Munier lets out a put-upon sigh. “You’re just determined to make everyone as miserable as you are, aren’t you?”

“Miss Manon asked for you to leave,” Demaury says flatly.

“How is darling Daphné anyway?” Munier asks, and Lucas feels a tremor run through Demaury’s body. “Is she well? Or does she find it exhausting, having to be your caretaker?”

“Leave.” Demaury repeats. His voice is hard still, but Lucas can hear the faintest crack in the facade, and he knows Munier can hear it too, because his smile widens, his teeth glinting in the firelight.

“Do any of them know, Demaury? Do they know just how bad it is? How you have no control over your mind? Do they know just how fucking insane you are? Because if they knew, well…” Munier lets out a long breath. “I don’t think they would allow you to be in a locked room with them.”

Lucas hears Manon gasp behind him. He sees, just past Demaury, the way Basile and Arthur both glance towards him, a series of complicated emotions passing over their faces.

And Lucas can’t. He can’t hear this. He can’t, for one moment, have Demaury thinking that Munier is telling the truth.

“I know.” Lucas says, and he slips past Demaury’s arm, switching their positions so Demaury is at his back. “I know all of it, and I also know this: I’ve never been afraid of him. I’ve never seen him as anything less than a man. But you?” Lucas is so angry, and he’s so tired. He’s tired of people like Munier thinking the world exists to serve them. He’s tired of being made to feel ashamed for who he is. He’s tired of having to hold onto his pride with desperate, clawing fingers. “You are not a man. You will never even come close, and you are the one I feel sorry for.” Lucas is burning from the inside out: he is his own fire, with flames licking up his skin, sparks shooting from his mouth, “I can fall in love with a single moment, because that’s all I will ever be given. And you will have a lifetime of hate, because that is all you are. That is all you will ever be. I would rather be as I am, as _unnatural_ as it apparently is, than be what you are.”

Every eye in the room is on Lucas now, but he barely feels their weight, barely registers his own words as they come out. He is a fire, and he’s going to destroy himself in order to clean the rot out of this room.

Munier lets out another laugh, cruel and cold. “Of course you defend him. You’re just like him, aren’t you? Just as _sick_. What a pair you two make: the sodomite and the lunatic—”

Munier’s head suddenly snaps back, a gasp of pain bursting from his throat and his knees buckling as Manon stands over him, her hand closed into a fist.

“You _bastard_!” She roars, looking as though she’s already preparing to throw another punch. “How dare you? _How dare you_?”

Lucas gapes at her. Demaury lunges forward, pulling her back before she can land another hit.

“I can’t believe I ever thought I loved you!” She yells, struggling in Demaury’s hold as he drags her back to the other side of the room.

Munier is slumped on the ground, blood dripping from his nose. He groans in pain when Basile and Arthur haul him up by the arms, weakly trying to escape their hold.

“Do you think you’ve done enough, now?” Lucas hears Arthur hiss at him. “Do you think you’ve hurt enough people?”

Demaury appears at Lucas’ side again. “Can you make sure she’s alright?” He asks, pointing back to where Manon is pacing near the window, her hands still clenched into fists. “I’m going to help them get him out of here. Honestly, I’m surprised no one from the inn has come to check on all of the noise yet.”

“Maybe they’re used to it,” Lucas says faintly, and Demaury crouches down so he can meet Munier’s eyes. He begins saying something to him, something that Lucas doesn’t catch as he walks over to Manon, reaching for her hands once he’s close enough, uncurling them from her fists.

There are drying tears on her cheeks, clear tracks cutting through the dirt, and she sighs when she sees Lucas, dropping her head onto his shoulder.

“That really hurt my hand.” Manon says with a sniff, and Lucas guides her hand towards the light, sees the bruising already forming on her knuckles.

“It was a fantastic hit, though,” he says softly, and Manon lets out a watery laugh.

“It felt good,” she murmurs. “God, Lucas I’m so sorry. I’ve pulled all of you into this mess with me.”

“It’s alright,” Lucas reassures her. “None of this is your fault, Manon. It’s me who should be sorry. He fooled all of us, he—”

“Lucas.” Arthur is standing by the door, holding it open while Basile and Demaury haul Munier out of the room. “We’re going to deal with him, alright? I’ll pay for a carriage to take you both home.”

Lucas frowns. It’s not Manon’s mess they’ve been pulled into but his, a mess made from withholding the truth, from keeping his secrets buried under his breastbone, but there they all are, trying to clean it up for him. “But—”

“I’ll send you your things.” Arthur raises his voice so he can be heard over the grunting and swearing coming from Munier. “Don’t worry, Lucas. We’ll be fine here. But you should get Manon home.”

Lucas turns back to her. She’s wiping the tear tracks away with her hands, smudging water and dirt across her cheekbones, and she gives him a small, shallow nod.

“I need to go home,” she murmurs. “I want to stay and help, but I don’t…I don’t think I can be around him anymore.”

 _Fuck._ “Of course,” Lucas says softly, pulling her into a hug. He presses his mouth into her hair, shutting his eyes tightly, willing away the tears that threaten to fall. He pulls away, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll go downstairs, we’ll get you some food, and then we’ll get a carriage home.”

“Alright.”

They step out of the room, their hands entwined, and Lucas slowly leads Manon down the stairs to the restaurant, surveying the room carefully before motioning for her to follow.

Downstairs, it’s as if nothing has happened. The dining room is still overflowing with people, bursting with drunken laughter and long-winded stories. Lucas can see why no one came to check on their room.

There’s a woman behind the bar, unscrewing a bottle of wine, and her eyes widen when she takes both of them in. “What’s happened to you?” She asks, setting the bottle down next to a pair of empty glasses. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

“I have,” Manon says, and she picks up the bottle of wine from the counter, pours herself a glass, and knocks it back.

The woman’s face furrows into a mixture of concern and confusion.

“Do you know if it would be possible to find a carriage this time of night?” Lucas asks, trying to pull her attention away from Manon. “One that could take us to Allier?”

After a moment, the woman shrugs, and she pours Manon another glassful of wine. “Should be. There’s always plenty of people coming and going around here.”

“Great,” Lucas sighs. He lays a hand flat on the bar. “Also, do you happen to have any food left?”

  
  
  


They leave the inn carrying half a loaf of stale bread and a block of cheese, and when the door slams shut behind them, Lucas sees Demaury, waiting next to his carriage.

“There you are,” he says. His eyes fall to the parcel of food tucked into Manon’s arms. “Oh, you found something to eat. That’s good.”

“What is this?” Lucas asks, nodding towards the carriage.

“Maurice will take you home.”

Lucas blinks, the words registering slowly in his exhausted, overwrought mind. “No, Demaury, please, we couldn’t ask him to—”

“He insisted.” Demaury says softly, his eyes darting over to the gentleman bundled into the driver’s seat. “I explained to him what happened, and he wouldn’t hear of any other solution.” He turns back to Lucas, and there’s a fond curve to his mouth. “He has two daughters, and he, well. He wants to help. I’ve provided him with sufficient funds so he can stay in Allier for a few days to rest.”

“But what about you?”

Demaury shrugs, a boyish gesture that contradicts his outward elegance. “I can do without a carriage for a while. It won’t be such a terrible hindrance.”

Neither of them are expecting it when Manon lets out a small sigh, and wraps her arms around Demaury, pulling him into a hug. “Thank you,” she says, and something warm unfolds in Lucas’ chest when he sees Demaury’s openly surprised face over her shoulder.

“I’m so very sorry,” Demaury murmurs, and Manon pulls back with a heavy, ironic smile.

“So am I.”

“We’ll make sure he leaves you alone,” Demaury assures her. “I promise.”

“Please thank them for me. Basile and Arthur, I mean. You’ve all done so much tonight.” Manon pats him on the shoulder gently. “But you know, I do have a feeling I’ll see you all again soon.”

Demaury bows his head towards her. “I hope so, Miss Manon.”

Manon spares him one more smile, then climbs into the carriage, giving a soft greeting to Maurice as she folds herself inside.

Lucas can’t bring himself to follow her. He’s rooted into the earth beneath his feet, so heavy with the stress and sorrow from the night, from Munier’s words and Manon’s teary face, that he could cry.

Oh. He might already be crying. He tries to breathe and it comes out as a shudder. His eyes feel wet.

“Lallemant.” Demaury is standing before him now, turning so his back is to the windows of the inn, shielding Lucas from any curious eyes. “You’re shaking.” Lucas blinks, and he realizes that yes, he is; his entire body is trembling uncontrollably, making his head ache and his teeth chatter.

“Here,” Demaury says, and he’s sliding out of his coat, wrapping it around Lucas’ shoulders and hesitating there, his hands smoothing down the thick fabric. “You can give it to Manon, as well, if she needs it.”

The coat is warm, enveloping Lucas in soft wool and the smell of rain and something distinctly fresh and masculine, something that must be made entirely of Demaury. He fights the urge to hide his face in the collar. God, he’s so tired.

“It’s alright,” Demaury says, and Lucas shakes his head, sniffling so loudly it would be embarrassing if he wasn’t at the end of his wits.

“It’s not alright.” He scrubs his hands down his face. “It’s not, don’t you understand? I could have prevented this.” Lucas’ chest feels tight. He can’t stop crying now, openly sobbing in front of Eliott Demaury while Manon waits for him. _Manon, oh God_. “She’s been hurt so badly, and I could have prevented it if I just told her.” He lets out a helpless laugh. “You were the one who warned me! You told me what he was capable of, but I just wouldn’t listen. I was so stubborn and now I’ve caused my own family to be hurt, I can’t, I can’t do this.” He’s not even sure what he’s saying anymore, words tumbling out of his mouth with every gasping breath, utter nonsense pulled from his aching, bleeding heart. “And what he said about you! I’m so sorry, Eliott. I’m so _fucking_ sorry, I should never have—”

Lucas startles at the touch of cool skin against his own, Demaury’s palms cupping his cheeks lightly, tilting Lucas’ chin up just enough so that Lucas has to meet his eyes. Lucas’ skin warms under his touch. His lips part slightly, eyes widening at the way Demaury is touching him: far too sweetly and intimately for the middle of the night, outside of a pub where anyone could see them, _anyone could see_.

But then one of Demaury’s thumbs strokes across the high point of his cheekbone, brushing away a tear, and all of the voices in Lucas’ head fall blissfully silent.

“It’s alright,” Demaury repeats softly, his other thumb catching another tear that trickles down his cheek. “I don’t blame you for not believing me. I haven’t been—things didn’t start well, between us, and Munier has a history of being able to convince anyone of anything he wants. Lucas,” Demaury’s eyes are dark against the night sky, softening with the moonlight, “please don’t blame yourself. Please. He’s the only one who’s at fault.”

When he’s able to gather himself enough to move, Lucas nods, his head tilting between Demaury’s palms. “Thank you,” his whispers.

“I should thank you,” Demaury says with a small smile. “The way you defended me, that was…no one has ever done anything like that for me, apart from my mother, Daphné, and Sofiane.”

“You defended me as well,” Lucas points out softly, and he can see the cruel twist to Munier’s face when he said, _What a pair the two of you make._ “It’s something you told me before,” Lucas says. Maybe it’s the way the night air feels frigid against his skin, or maybe it’s the way Munier’s cruelty lingers uncomfortably in his mind, but he reaches his hands up, laying them over Demaury’s to hold them against his skin. Demaury’s face slackens. His chest heaves with a sharp inhale. “In your letter,” Lucas says, distracted by the way Demaury’s fingers move under his, “ you said that we should never feel ashamed for the things that are a part of our nature. I think that too, you know. For both of us.”

“Oh.” Demaury murmurs. He looks transfixed, his gaze falling from Lucas’ eyes to the place where their hands overlap.

“Lucas?” Manon calls from the carriage, and they fall apart, both of their arms dropping to their sides, both of their eyes widening with the fear of being caught.

Being caught doing what exactly, Lucas isn’t sure.

Demaury clears his throat. “I mean, that is…I mean to say thank you. For, um, for that.” His eyes dart to the carriage. “I hope she’ll be alright.” A corner of his mouth quirks. “I do have to admit, that hit was very satisfying to see.”

“I think it was satisfying for her as well,” Lucas says dryly, and they exchange a pair of barely-there smiles.

“She’s very brave.” Demaury murmurs, taking another step back, folding his hands behind his back. “It must be a family trait.”

“It is,” Lucas says solemnly, then Manon calls for him again, and he bows awkwardly, averting his eyes to the ground. “Thank you for everything. You’ve been so kind to all of us, and I, well—I think that…no, alright.” Lucas bows again, and he hurries away to the carriage, to where Manon is waiting for him, curled into a corner of the plush seats, sectioning off the bread into two halves.

“What were you two talking about?” She asks once Lucas has sat down.

“Just the route Maurice will take to bring us home.” Lucas says softly. His eyes dart to the carriage window, where he can see Demaury’s silhouette, disappearing around the side of the inn. “And he said that you’re very brave.”

“I suppose I am,” Manon says with a sigh. She drops her head to Lucas’ shoulder. “But, Lucas, I’m also—” Her voice grows heavy, choked with held-back tears. “I’m scared. I’m scared of what Mama and Papa will think. I’m scared that I’ve ruined my entire future. And what then? What have I done to myself?” She turns her face into the thick material of Demaury’s coat. “I’m scared,” she repeats quietly.

“I know.” Lucas links their hands together on her lap, squeezing her fingers gently. “I know, Manon.”

She falls asleep like that, exhaustion finally winning out, lulled by the movements of the carriage, while Lucas lowers his chin to her head, his eyes peering out of the carriage window in the deep, dark night, searching for stars in the inky sky to guide them home.

  
  
  


Manon starts to show her nerves again just outside of Allier.

She responds to Lucas only in monosyllables, switching between wringing her hands in her lap and tapping her fingers distractedly along the door, staring intently at the passing fields.

Lucas knows that she’s terrified about what Mrs. Banet will say once she discovers that Manon eloped with an officer, then had a falling out with said officer. There’s the very real possibility of such a thing tarnishing Manon’s reputation for good, even if the elopement was brought on by manipulation, and the falling out was brought on by lies and anger, and in both cases, the only one to blame is Munier.

It’s brutally unfair, but still it happens.

Lucas tries to take her hand, tries to make a joke, tries to draw her attention to a beautiful lilac bush they pass, but Manon doesn’t react to any of it, and eventually Lucas stops trying, getting the sense that she only wants to be alone with her thoughts in the hour before they arrive at Beaufort.

When the carriage rolls to a stop, she begins to shake, minuscule tremors that start in her hands, then travel up her arms to her shoulders. Lucas reaches for the door handle, sending Manon one last searching look. When she gives him a small nod, he opens it, and steps down, offering a hand back to her. She takes it, stumbling slightly as she lands on the ground, and she barely has a minute to breathe, to squint against the midday sunlight, before there’s a surge of voices calling, and arms reaching out, and both of them, Lucas and Manon, are folded into a crushing embrace by Emma and Alexia.

“ _Manon_.” Alexia is crying, stroking her hands down Manon’s hair and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

Emma is quiet, her head buried in Manon’s shoulder, but Lucas can see the desperate way she grips onto Manon, can see her back shuddering with a heavy breath, and he knows she must be crying too, and that sets him off as well, and then they’re all crying, clutching onto each other while Maurice looks on, his hands clasped over his heart.

“What happened?” Alexia asks wetly. She stares down at Manon’s borrowed clothes in confusion. “Why are you dressed like that? Why are you with Lucas?”

“It’s a very, very long story,” Manon wearily. She sways on the spot, and Emma and Alexia both wrap an arm around her to support her, hands linking across her back. “I will tell you everything, all of you, but I think I need to—”

“Manon.”

They all look up as one, Manon supported between Emma and Alexia, Lucas hovering close to them protectively, Maurice watching everything unfold with tears in his eyes.

Mrs. Banet looks like a banshee fallen from the top of a mountain. Her eyes are wild, hair undone, and she’s wearing her nightdress still, with her husband’s dressing gown hastily thrown on top of it.

There’s a pause when she and Manon see each other, a silence falling upon them that’s interrupted only by birdsong, curious heads poking out from the branches of the wych elms to look upon their strange little scene.

“Mama,” Manon starts, apologetic, resigned, ashamed, and that’s what breaks Mrs. Banet, that’s what causes her to surge forward, arms stretched out, sobs caught in her throat.

She pulls Manon into a tight hug, folding her arms over her head, cocooning her into her shoulder. Emma and Alexia slowly let go, exchanging relieved glances before they move away.

“My darling,” Mrs. Banet murmurs, and Manon sinks further into her, like a child being comforted after a nightmare.

“Come on.” Mrs. Banet keeps Manon close with an arm wrapped around her middle, guiding her into the house. “Let’s make you some tea, draw you a bath, and then, when you’re ready, you can tell us what happened.” Her eyes drift over to Maurice, still standing dutifully next to the carriage. “And you as well, sir. You can take the horses around the back so they can rest, then please, come in for a spot of tea.”

“What’s happened to him?” Alexia whispers to Lucas as they file into the house. “To Munier?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas says honestly, remembering the strength of Demaury’s words when he said to Manon, _We’ll make sure he leaves you alone. I promise_. “But I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.”

At this, Emma and Alexia exchanged another look, this one weighted with curiosity.

Lucas gives a cursory glance around the entryway, searching for a familiar gait and head of white hair. “Where’s Mr. Banet?”

“He went to Brest,” Emma says lowly. “To meet Mr. Beauregard. They were forming a search party. But his plan was to return here before trying to go south, towards Marseilles. He should be back soon.” She frowns down at Lucas suddenly, plucking at the lapel of Demaury’s coat. “Whose coat is this?”

“No one’s.” Lucas says, a touch too quickly, too defensively, because it makes Emma raise her eyebrows.

“Right,” she drawls. “Manon returns wearing men’s clothes and you return wearing,” she flicks at one of its gold buttons, “a very expensive coat that is at least a size too big for you. Sure.”

“We’ve had a long night,” Lucas says at length, and Emma’s sly smile drops, her eyes softening.

“I can only imagine.”

  
  
  


Mrs. Banet sends Manon up for a bath right away, then putters anxiously around the kitchen while they all wait for her return: boiling water for tea, setting out cups and saucers, cutting a generous slice off of a sweet loaf, then boiling the water again when it cools.

Lucas watches from the kitchen bench, his elbows planted on the table and his head falling into his hands, his eyelids continuously drooping closed.

Alexia touches his shoulder.

“You should sleep, Lucas.”

“No.” Lucas snaps his head up, blinking rapidly at the afternoon sun pouring in through the kitchen window. “I’m fine.”

He’s exhausted, but he’s restless. He wants to ensure Manon is alright, he wants to wait for Mr. Banet to return, he wants to stay there, surrounded by his family, for as long as he possibly can, with the warmth of daylight on his face and the warmth of a fire against his back. That, more than sleep, more than a deep scrub of dirt away from his skin, makes him feel renewed after their harrowing night.

Manon enters the kitchen only moments later, wrapped tightly in a dressing gown, her hair damp around her shoulders. They all watch as she takes a seat at the table, her eyes low as she accepts the cup of tea and slice of loaf her mother places before her.

“How are you feeling?” Emma asks, brushing Manon’s hair over her shoulder.

“Tired, but I’m alright,” Manon says with a smile, grateful smile.

She takes a sip from her tea. “Thank you, Mama.”

Mrs. Banet’s face softens as she looks down at her daughter, a gentle warmth covering the worry that creases her features. She sits down next to her daughter, stroking a hand over her head, and then says, just the same as Lucas did, “Start at the beginning, Manon.”

Manon takes a large bite of the sweet loaf, a gulp of tea, and then, she does.

She recounts the entire story, hiding nothing of the truth, as much as it makes her flush with embarrassment, or makes it difficult for her to meet anyone’s eyes. Mrs. Banet doesn’t interrupt her as she talks, only refills her tea, cuts her another slice of loaf, and listens, her brow furrowing when Manon enters into the part of the story where everything went wrong, covering her mouth with her hands when she describes her flee to Orléans, and the falling out at Le Cygne Blanc. Manon doesn’t say anything about Munier’s accusation towards Lucas, nor about his cruel words for Demaury. Instead, she says, “He was becoming desperate, and in that desperation he was saying cruel, untrue things, designed to hurt everyone in the room. So…I hit him.” She winces. “I think I hurt his nose, and my hand…” She lays her right hand flat on the table, the knuckles still bruised and swollen.

Mrs. Banet gasps. Alexia hisses _yes_ under her breath and Emma nods, impressed.

“Then we left,” Manon says, her eyes flicking over to Lucas. “While the other three took him away. I don’t know what they did, but…” She shakes her head. “He promised me that he would leave me alone.”

“Who promised you?” Mrs. Banet asks.

Manon glances at Lucas again. Lucas lifts one shoulder in a shrug, trying to convey, _I don’t think he’d want you to tell everyone about it, but it’s important that we do. This is about righting what’s been wronged, in every possible way._

“Mr. Demaury,” Manon finally says, tracing one finger around the rim of her tea cup. “He promised me, and then he gave us his carriage. The man, Maurice, he’s his driver.”

“And why would he do such a thing? Such a selfless act is out of character for him, is it not?”

Lucas tries to hide a flinch at the words, a judgement that he himself shared until not very long ago.

“He’s known Mr. Munier a long time,” Manon says at length. “He, ah…he’s seen him attempt an elopement before. One that ended just as badly. He intervened back then as well.” She lays both hands flat on the table, staring at the stretch of wood between her palms. “It shows a pattern of behaviour in Mr. Munier, I think. One that reveals his true character. I am not blameless in this, I know that. I…” She takes a deep breath. “I may very well have ruined my reputation for good, but I also know that I was fooled, just as we all were, by a man who makes a living out of leeching goodwill from others. I made a terrible decision. I was thoughtless, selfish, and I will have to live with that, but Mama,” she turns bright eyes onto Mrs. Banet, her hands clawing in the wood. “I’m not—I swear to you, I’m not—”

“Oh no. No, darling.” Mrs. Banet pulls Manon into another embrace, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of her head. “Now, listen to me.” She drops her hands to Manon’s shoulders, pushing her away gently so she can meet her eyes. “You did make a terrible decision. You did something that was incredibly foolish and yes, because of it, your name may now be tarnished for good.”

Manon nods, biting down on her lip.

“When I received that letter from the Beauregard’s, telling me what you had done, I was furious. I wanted to go to Brest _myself_ , to drag you away from him by the ends of your hair if I had to. But it wasn’t just because I was angry. It was because I was scared. You ran off with a man I had never even met before, and I was so—” She cuts herself off on a sob, pressing her hands over her chest. “My own daughter, doing such a thing. Yes, the fallout of such a scandal _lingers_ , to say the least, but more than anything I was worried about you. All I want for you, for all of you,” her gaze drifts across the table, pausing on each one of them, “is to be safe and loved. And of course, you know that I also want for you to find suitable marriages, but not if it means _elopement_ , for God’s sake.”

Manon sputters out a shaky laugh, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Mama.”

“I know you are,” Mrs. Banet sighs. “I have to tell you, darling, that it won’t be easy to move past this, but you will. We all will, and if Mrs. Pelume so much as makes a whisper about this, then oh, she will be hearing from _me_.”

This makes all of them laugh, a welcoming release of the tension that had been so thick in the house from the moment they arrived. It feels like opening a window to a winter cellar.

Lucas watches as Mrs. Banet wraps Manon into another hug, the happiness blooming inside of him warring with another sensation, something that is more nuanced than envy, but begs to ask the question, _Would she forgive me so easily? If I told her everything?_

It’s a horribly inappropriate moment to think of such a thing, when Lucas knows Manon is the one who was tricked, and nearly eloped with a man who was manipulative, cruel, and God knows what else, and it’s Manon who they all need to be comforting right now, who needs to be told that everything will be alright, and that there’s no need for her to worry.

He can nearly feel it: the dream-like feeling of cool skin against his cheeks, a gentle touch wiping away a tear. _It’s alright. It’s alright._

A surge of longing rolls through Lucas with the memory, so strong that it renders him breathless.

“Ah,” Mrs. Banet says, turning towards the back door to the kitchen, where Maurice stands, his hat held in his hands. “You are Mr. Demaury’s man, then?”

“Yes ma’am.” Maurice bows. “Mr. Maurive Tervot, at your service.”

“Well, Mr. Tervot—”

“Maurice, please.”

Mrs. Banet smiles. “Maurice. Thank you for delivering them home. You’re welcome to stay with us, if you’re in need of rest before making the trip home.”

“Oh no, ma’am. I’ll be getting a room in Hérisson tonight, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Are you certain?”

“Very.” Maurice says with a grin, taking another step into the room. “Eliott—that is, Mr. Demaury, pardon me—ensured that I am set to purchase a room for a few nights, if needed.”

Mrs. Banet’s gaze turns curious, calculating. “He’s a generous man, is he?”

“Yes, he is.”

She hums, tapping a finger against her chin. “Perhaps we have been wrong…” She murmurs, mostly to herself, then she raises her eyes to Maurice again. “Do you happen to know if he’s looking to get married?”

Lucas knocks over his teacup, the porcelain careening off of the table and shattering on the kitchen floor, a trail of lukewarm tea following in its destructive path.

“ _Mama_.” Manon groans. Emma and Alexia burst into laughter, and Maurice grins as well, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he attempts to stutter out an appropriate response.

Lucas drops his head into his hands, his face burning, a helpless, hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest.

“It is only a question!” Mrs. Banet protests, and that sets them all off again.

  
  
  


Mr. Banet doesn’t return until the next day, the sound of the carriage rousing Lucas from a nap on the drawing room sofa. He’s disoriented, still recovering from the whirlwind night he had leaving Orléans, and fatigue makes his head feel heavy and his limbs feel like they’re trying to move through water. His neck is stiff, and there are creases from his aunt’s tasseled pillow on his cheek.

He stands slowly, stretching his arms above his head and wincing when his spine cracks, his shoulders straining in protest. If anything, he feels more tired than he did before he fell asleep.

He stumbles to the door like he’s drunk, rubbing at his eyes, yawning into his hand, squinting into the light pouring in through the windows. Alexia reaches the door before he does, throwing it open and running onto the porch. Emma follows, close on her heels, and Lucas is right behind her, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watches his uncle descend from the carriage. He looks as weary as Lucas feels, face gaunt and pale, his travelling cloak knotted up tightly despite the heat.

“Papa,” Alexia says when she reaches him, hugging him around the shoulders. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Mr. Banet says with a sigh. “But I would really like to—”

“She’s back!” Emma skids to a stop next to her father. “Manon, I mean. She’s here! She returned with Lucas.”

“Yes, I—” Mr. Banet’s voice trails off when his eyes land on Manon, who stands next to Lucas on the porch, hesitating.

“It’s alright,” Lucas whispers, “I don’t think he’s upset.”

Manon sends him a small smile. “I hope so,” she says, and she steps down from the porch, meeting her father halfway down the front walk.

“My darling girl,” Mr. Banet says hoarsely, “I was so worried about you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Manon murmurs, and Mr. Banet shakes his head, folding her into a tight embrace.

Lucas doesn’t hear what he says, but it’s enough to make Manon laugh, and grip onto her father a little more tightly, the pair of them swaying together on the spot.

Next to Lucas, Mrs. Banet sighs, clutching her handkerchief close to her chest.

“I knew I married him for a reason,” she says thickly, and Lucas grins, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tugging her into his side.

They all move into the drawing room: Mr. and Mrs. Banet sitting at the table, Alexia, Emma, and Manon on the sofa, and Lucas on the floor, his legs folded under himself. Manon recounts her story again to her father, omitting only a few private details, and Mr. Banet listens quietly, solemnly, his face darkening when Manon speaks of Munier’s growing anger, his drunkenness, and his financial troubles.

“Bastard,” Mr. Banet hisses under his breath, and his wife whacks him across the arm with her fan.

“That’s what I said as well,” Manon tells him sheepishly. “Before I hit him.”

“Can scarcely think of a man who would deserve it more,” Mr. Banet says, and Emma and Alexia cheer in response. Mrs. Banet flicks her fan open, hiding her face, but Lucas can just make out the corner of a satisfied smile behind it.

“And then, well…” Manon glances over at Lucas. “I don’t know what’s happened to him. We left him with them—that is, Arthur, Basile, and Mr. Demaury.”

“Ah.” Mr. Banet removes his glasses, folding the arms down and laying them onto the table. “Yes. I saw him.”

Lucas’ head snaps up so fast that his neck twinges in response. “You saw him?” He blurts out, ignoring the way Alexia, Manon, and Emma turn towards him curiously. “You saw, um, Mr. Demaury?”

“No,” Mr. Banet says, and Lucas’ heart sinks in response. He tries to school his features so it doesn’t show, the palpable disappointment within him at…at what? At not hearing news of Demaury? Of not then being able to ask his uncle, _What was he doing? What did he say? What did his face look like? Did he smile?_

“I spoke with Arthur Broussard,” Mr. Banet continues, laying one hand flat on the table. “Our paths crossed just outside of Orléans, where he and Mr. Savary were making a brief stop on the way back to Paris. He recounted a version of the events that occurred that night to me, but I expect he left out some details.” He frowns, like he’s considering something, and Lucas flushes, wondering what Arthur might have told him. And what he purposefully left out.

“What you need to know, Manon,” Mr. Banet says gently, “is that Mr. Munier is gone. He’s left for the north with another regiment, and in doing so he’s received a rather large commission. I very much doubt that any of us will be hearing from him again.”

“A commission.” Manon says dubiously. “From who?”

Mr. Banet strokes his chin, brow furrowed as though he’s weighing his next words carefully, and at once, Lucas knows. As sure as every truth deep within himself, he _knows_.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” He asks, sitting up from his reclined position on the floor, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “It was Eli—Mr. Demaury.”

Every head in the room swivels from Mr. Banet, to Lucas, and back to Mr. Banet, watching intently as he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, and eventually nods.

“Apparently,” he says at length, “young Mr. Demaury took it upon himself to pay off Munier’s debts, and to find him a position with a new regiment. Although, and I cannot for the life of me understand why, he asked Mr. Broussard and Mr. Savary not to say a word about it.”

Manon has her hands pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are wide. “I didn’t realize,” she murmurs. “I didn’t know that he would…I owe him such a debt now, how can I possibly—”

“He wouldn’t want you to pay it back,” Lucas says, and his mouth is moving faster than his mind, blurting out the truth that reflects the images stamped onto his heart, the truth of Demaury as he’s seen it: inviting Herman to dinner, staying behind to help his staff clean, constantly offering help, constantly reassuring Lucas, holding his face between gentle palms and saying, _It’s alright_ , buying Lucas a telescope because _Yes, I know._

He doesn’t register the strange intimacy of the words until he meets Manon’s gaze, and sees the dawning realization there, confusion melting into shock melting into something sweet and knowing.

 _Oh fuck_ , Lucas thinks, embarrassment and panic coursing through him in alternating waves, leaving him feeling too hot and too cold and too anxious, and the only course of action he can possibly think of is flinging himself out of the open window getting carried away on the soft June breeze.

But before he can do anything of the sort, Mrs. Banet speaks. “Well, there we are.” She says happily, snapping her fan shut with a flick of her wrist. “Once again, that Mr. Demaury proves himself to be different than we thought.” Her eyes take on a considering gleam. “Manon, do you think—”

“No,” Manon says firmly, holding a hand out towards her mother. “No. That’s not to even be considered.”

“But he—”

“No.” Manon repeats, and her eyes are hard. “Please drop it, Mama. Mr. Demaury is a…good friend to us. I have no wish to change that.”

 _A good friend_. Lucas thinks wildly, lowering his head onto his knees. He feels nauseous. He feels delirious. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

“I had no idea you knew him so well, Lucas,” Alexia says, and Lucas raises his head slowly, forcing his face into something that hopefully resembles a neutral expression.

“I don’t, really. But we, um, we dined with him. When we were staying in Orléans, and he proved himself to be…well, he’s a very kind and generous man.”

“So just to be clear, we don’t hate him anymore?” Emma asks, her gaze darting around the room.

“Emma, please, we never _hated_ anyone.” Mrs. Banet says primly.

“But obviously we hate Mr. Munier now.”

“Well.” Mrs. Banet clears her throat. “That’s another matter entirely.”

“Huh.” Emma sits back into the sofa, her arms crossed over her chest. “We were so wrong, weren’t we? About both of them.”

Manon lets out a small laugh. “It’s not the first time it’s ever happened.”

Alexia drops her head onto Manon’s shoulder. “And it’s probably not the last, either.”

  
  
  


No one mentions Lucas’ comment about Demaury—no one even brings up his name, and Lucas is both grateful for it and suspicious of it, particularly of Manon, and of the alchemic sunrise that passed over her face following Lucas’ words. She doesn’t speak to him about it, but she also doesn’t treat him differently, even after he tells her that he knew of Demaury’s history with Munier before Manon left for Brest. He doesn’t tell her about those brief feelings he had for Munier, but he does tell her he knew, and he didn’t do anything to stop her. 

When she hears this, Manon is silent for a minute, her eyes distant on the blue sky just outside of her window.

Eventually she says, “I understand, Lucas. More than you think.” And then she kissed him on the forehead.

He doesn’t ask her what she means by that, and she doesn’t elaborate, but in the days that follow,

She is still as fond and teasing towards Lucas as she always is, and it soothes some of the fear in his heart. It makes him wonder, hopeful like a budding lilac tree, what she would say if he told her—properly told her. Perhaps she wouldn’t care at all. Perhaps she could know, really know, and they would still be able to do this: walk arm-in-arm to Hérisson, making faces at each other behind Mrs. Banet’s back and laughing whenever she catches them.

It’s comforting, to be able to do the same things they did as children, to fall into old routines, despite how much has changed around them and within themselves. It’s finding a bit of familiarity in the midst of the storm of life. It makes Lucas feel like, despite everything that has and may still happen, that it could really be alright in the end. Him, Manon, all of them. They could be alright.

They follow Mrs. Banet through Hérisson, Manon offering opinions about various purchases while Lucas carries her packages for her. He notices, as they drift from shop to shop, a few surreptitious glances that are sent their way, but they’re easy to ignore, and for her part, Manon wethers them well.

“No one would ever be bold enough to say something to our faces,” Mrs. Banet huffs as they exit Mme. Fragonard’s, another purchase added to Lucas’ pile. “They wait until no one will overhear them, and then they gossip themselves silly.”

“You should know,” Lucas says brightly, and she sends him a flat glare over her shoulder.

“It’s fine.” Manon takes a paper bag from the bakery out from under Lucas’ arm. “I know what I’ve done, and I know exactly why I did it. But, I suppose, well…I’d really rather not hear everyone else’s opinions on my actions.”

Mrs. Banet takes her daughter’s hand. “They will talk only until they have something new to talk about.”

“Don’t worry Manon,” Lucas says, “I’m sure something far more scandalous will happen soon enough.”

Manon arches an eyebrow at him. “Is that a promise?” She asks, and Lucas blinks at her, unsure exactly of how to interpret that.

“Mrs. Banet!”

They turn as one to see a man jogging towards them, waving his hat excitedly above his head. Lucas is fairly sure he’s the same man who usually sells them cheese. When he stops before them, he’s out of breath, and sweating at the temples, but he’s grinning widely, eyes glittering. “I’ve _news_ , madame.”

“You see?” Lucas crows triumphantly, and Mrs. Banet shushes him.

“What is it, then?”

“Mr. Alaoui is returning to Champrès Hall.”

A beat of silence follows, where Manon and Lucas exchange a shocked glance over Mrs. Banet’s head.

“Oh,” Mrs. Banet says lightly. “That’s…interesting, I suppose.” She hums, stroking a finger down her nose. “I don’t know why this would be pertinent news, because he’s of no import to us, but…” She cocks her head to the side. “Is it certain that he’s coming?”

The man nods eagerly. “It is. And, from what I understand, he comes alone.”

“Alone.” Mrs. Banet repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Well. How lovely for him, then.”

As they begin their walk home, Manon falls back to stay in line with Lucas, leaning close to him to whisper, “What do you think that means, _alone_?”

“Without Miss du Vionnet, I would think.” Lucas licks his lips. “And without, you know, any other guests.”

Manon nods, the paper bag crinkling under her grip. “Do you think Imane knows?”

“Fuck,” Lucas murmurs, thinking of Imane sitting in the Bakhellal kitchen, trying to convince Lucas that she had no other feelings for Alaoui when it was, at least to him, painfully clear that the opposite was true. “I have no idea.”

“There’s no guarantee he’s coming to see her, is there?”

“Right.”

“But…” The corner of Manon’s mouth twitches. “It sure is interesting, isn’t it? That he just decided to return?”

Lucas gives a smile in return, adjusting his hold on his pile of packages, feeling his arms strain with it. “It sure is.”

“Perhaps he’s realized that he’s been a fool.”

Lucas laughs at that. “I thought we were all fools in love.”

Manon waves her free hand at him. “We are, but honestly, there has to be a limit of how foolish you can be before you just…know.”

“Know what?”

Manon shrugs. “Whether you belong together or not.”

Mrs. Banet calls for them to hurry, and Manon takes a few more boxes from Lucas’ pile to help him. Yet for the entirety of the walk home, off of the road and into the fields, crossing over patches of wildflowers and skirting around apple orchards, Manon’s words follow Lucas like dandelion seeds, planting themselves in his chest, burrowing deep, deeper, until there’s an entire sea of bright, blooming yellow bursting within him.

(Hope turns all of us into summertime.)

  
  
  


What Manon and Lucas don’t know is that Sofiane Alaoui does, in fact, realize that he’s been a fool.

He actually knew it the moment he left Allier, the moment he returned to Paris and felt the pressure of the city caving in on him once again.

But he doesn’t know the extent of his own foolishness until Eliott Demaury appears at his door one day, his hat held tightly between his hands, his eyes lowered shamefully.

“Sof, I have to tell you something,” he says quietly.

Sofiane is angry at first, so angry that he throws an embroidered pillow clear across the room, which accidentally knocks over an heirloom vase filled with tulips.

After he and Eliott manage to salvage the flowers (but not the vase) his anger is dissipated somewhat, replaced by a brief, hysterical bout of laughter, and all that’s left in its wake is a sad, somber resignation.

“It isn’t your fault,” he tells Eliott, both of them sitting cross-legged on the overpriced rug in his drawing room. “Well, it is, but it isn’t. I can’t believe how easily I let myself be swayed.” He sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “I just doubted it so much,” he mumbles into his palms. “I doubted that someone like her—so passionate, intelligent, funny, and _beautiful_ —would ever want to be with me.”

Eliott is quiet at this.

“Anyway,” Sofiane plants his hands on his bent knees. “I’m sure she despises me now. I would understand it if she did.”

“Do you still love her?” Eliott asks, and Sofiane nods slowly.

“I do. You know, actually, I think I always will. She was—” He can feel tears pooling in his eyes and he groans, tilting his head back. “She was everything. Is everything.”

Eliott seems to chew on this for a while, staring intently at a spot just over Sofiane’s shoulder, his eyes distant. It’s something Sofiane has always admired about Eliott, how carefully he considers the truths that are told to him. Even if he is quiet in a conversation, Sofiane knows he’s listening, knows he’s thinking intently about what he’s hearing, and he knows he will remember it. He’s one of the most thoughtful people Sofiane has ever known, and that’s how Sofiane knows that the mistake Eliott made is just that. A mistake made with poor judgement.

“I think,” Eliott finally says, “that you should go to her.”

Sofiane shakes his head. “Eliott—”

“I mean it.” Eliott stares at him openly, pleadingly. “You can tell her it was all my fault, you can tell her I fed you lies, did everything I could to keep you away, but Sof, I really think that she would understand if you properly explain yourself.”

“How do you know that?” Sofiane asks helplessly. He wants nothing more than to go to her, to show up at her door and tell her that he loves her, he’s never loved anyone like this before, and all he wants in this entire world is to be with her for the rest of his life, _Imane_ —

“Because Lucas said…” Eliott begins, and then his voice trails off, a look of utter panic crossing over his face.

Sofiane raises his eyebrows. “ _Lucas_?”

“Mr. Lallemant,” Eliott corrects himself hastily.

“I fucking _knew_ it—” Sofiane cries, but then the same pillow he threw across the room smacks him in the face, and he lets out an indignant yelp.

“We’re talking about you right now!” Eliott cries. His cheeks are an impressive shade of red. “Mr. Lallemant told me that he’s certain her feelings were the same as yours. The entire time you knew her.”

“But that doesn’t mean I can swan back into her life and—”

“I’m not telling you to _swan_ anywhere,” Eliott says, exasperated. “I’m telling you that she loved you. She wanted to be with you, and those feelings such as those, they don’t just disappear. Go to her, Sofiane. Tell her everything, and apologize. I really think you…” Eliott stares at him intently. “I think you’ll regret it forever if you don’t.”

“ _God_.” Sofiane falls onto his back, sprawled across the rug. “You’re right.”

That’s how Sofiane Alaoui comes to be here, pacing at the edge of a stream, muttering to himself while Eliott leans against a tree, watching him.

“I’m going to go in there,” Sofiane says, pointing to where they can just see the edge of the Bakhellal house, “and I’m going to ask to speak to her alone.”

Eliott nods.

“Then,” Sofiane pivots on his heels, striding back across the grass, “I’m going to apologize _profusely_ , I’m going to tell her I’ve been a comprehensive ass, and I’m going to tell her everything that happened.”

“Yes.”

“And then, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

“If it feels appropriate,” Eliott says, and Sofiane lets out a frustrated groan.

“How will I know if it feels appropriate?”

Eliott makes a face at him. “You’ll know.”

Sofiane feels something akin to dread fall heavily upon his shoulders. “I think I’m going to be ill.”

“No you’re not. Come on.” Eliott pushes himself away from the tree, his hands falling to his sides. “I’ll pretend to be Miss Bakhellal, and you can practice what you’re going to say.”

Sofiane blinks dubiously at him.

Eliott shrugs. “Would you rather go in there _without_ practicing?”

It’s a fair point. Sofiane nods, resigned to his fate of humiliating himself before his best friend.

Practicing goes as well as it could go.

It starts with Sofiane fumbling his speech, unable to make eye contact, even with Eliott, dropping his hat twice and nearly tripping over a stray root.

“This is a disaster.” Sofiane mutters to himself.

“Try it again,” Eliott calls out to him. “This time, please don’t say that thing about her mother.”

It ends with Sofiane managing to get one clear apology, explanation, and proposal out, and while it’s shaky, and still lacking any sort of confidence, Sofiane thinks it’s the best he could ever hope to do, given how utterly terrified he feels.

“It will be fine,” Eliott reassures him, grasping onto his shoulders. “Just tell her the truth, and tell her how you feel. After that, it’s out of your hands, and you’ll know that you’ve done everything you could to make this right.”

“Thank you,” Sofiane tells him sincerely. He dislodges himself from Eliott’s grip so he can hug him, holding him tightly around his middle. “Really, Eliott, thank you.”

Eliott exhales into his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

Sofiane pulls away, taking a deep breath and putting his hat back on. “Alright. I’m going to go.”

“I believe in you,” Eliott says solemnly.

“Well, at least one of us does.” Sofiane pauses, glancing back at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Eliott nods, smiling softly. “I’m sure. I don’t want to complicate things.”

“But…” Sofiane hesitates, unsure of how delicately to tread. Eliott speaks so little of his own heart as it is. The fact that he let so much slip to Sofiane without realizing it, the fact that he said _Lucas_ , it’s enough that Sofiane doesn’t want to let it go. Can’t let it go. “I’m sure if you came, you would, uh…that he would be there.”

“Maybe,” Eliott murmurs, running a hand across the back of his neck. “But, Sofiane, I can’t…” His hands fall flat to his sides. “I don’t think he would want to see me.”

“You know,” Sofiane says at length, watching Eliott carefully. “You were the one who told me to do this. You were the one who said that I needed to try, just one more time, because if I didn’t, I would regret it. Don’t you think you should be taking your own advice?”

Eliott scowls at him. “It’s not the same, Sofiane, I’m not—”

“You’re just as deserving of love as the rest of us, Eliott.”

Eliott falls silent. There are too many emotions playing across his face for Sofiane to interpret, like an ever-changing moon, and he sighs, gently squeezing Eliott’s arm.

“I just want to see you happy, Eli.” He brushes a patch of dirt off of his jacket, smiling warmly at him. “Think about it, alright?”

And with that, Sofiane Alaoui strides away, pointing himself in the general direction of the Bakhellal house, keeping his head held high despite how the vines of doubt twist themselves into knots in his stomach.

Eliott Demaury watches him leave, proud and excited and nervous all at once, but he doesn’t watch him for long. His eyes drift away, across the field in front of them, dancing around the trees scattered along the road, searching in the distance for a house he’s only ever heard described.

He thinks of eyes blue enough to drown in, clever hands hovering above cool brass, warm skin against his palms, a salty tear underneath his thumb.

Eliott longs for him like his own heart has been carved from his chest. He longs for him like he’s the moon chasing the sun. He longs for him like a star.

Always, always longing.

_You’re just as deserving of love as the rest of us, Eliott._

Maybe, just maybe, he needs to start believing that.

  
  
  


Lucas is at his uncle’s desk, restlessly tapping his fingers against the wood. There’s a discrepancy between his notes and his map, an extra star that he doesn’t remember plotting before. He sits back in his chair, frowning down at the map, cursing himself for the lack of concentration that plagues him lately.

The very moment Lucas is left alone with his thoughts, without anything sufficient enough for distraction, he thinks about him. _Eliott Demaury_. It’s maddening.

He plants his elbows on the desk, dropping his head into his hands, and very likely smudging ink onto his forehead.

“What am I supposed to do?” He whispers down to his map, blinking slowly at the inked stars.

The map stares back at him stoically.

“Very helpful, thank you,” he mutters, and that’s when the front door is opened with so much force that it bangs sharply against the wall, starting Lucas into a yelp, his hands flailing as he falls back into his chair, tumbling backwards to the ground.

“He’s _here_!” A voice shrieks, and Lucas distantly registers it as Alexia.

“What on Earth are you yelling about?” Mrs. Banet’s muffled voice comes from beyond the door.

“It’s Mr. Alaoui!” Alexia says in rush. “I saw him, just now, crossing the willow field! I think he’s going to the Bakhellal’s!”

Lucas stares up at the ceiling for one moment, for another, and then he blinks, his eyes widening, and he rolls onto his side, surging up from the floor and hastily righting his chair before he runs to the study door, throwing it open to find Alexia holding onto a crushed bouquet of wildflowers, Mrs. Banet clutching onto a cup of tea like it’s a rock in a rough sea.

There’s the sound of a door slamming, rapid footfalls on the stairs, and Emma and Manon appear, leaning over the railing together.

“Did you just say you saw Mr. Alaoui going to the Bakhellal house?” Manon asks around a gasping breath.

“ _Yes_.” Alexia says, dropping the bouquet unceremoniously into an empty vase on the entryway table.

Emma, Manon, and Lucas spare one searching glance, and then they’re all moving at once. Emma and Manon stumble down the stairs while Lucas dives back into the study, fetching his jacket from where he threw it over the back of his chair. He thinks he may have put it on backwards, he can’t be sure, but he forgets it as soon as he considers it, following after the girls as they run out the front door.

“Just where are you all headed, then?” Mrs. Banet calls after them.

Emma turns on her heels. “Where do you think, Mama? He’s going to ask her to marry him!” She lets out a gleeful cackle, and then they’re all running, feet landing heavily against the dirt, the summer sun beating down on their shoulders, the girls gathering their skirts in their hands.

Lucas hears another set of footsteps on the road, and he glances over his shoulder, letting out a laugh when he sees Mrs. Banet following them at a slower run, clutching her shawl around her shoulders.

She sees Lucas staring, and she cries out, “I’ll need to see this for myself, thank you very much!”

They run the entire way to the Bakhellal house, and when they arrive, they’re all sweating, panting and covered in a thin layer of dirt kicked up from the road.

Alexia reaches the door first, lifting a hand to knock, and Emma pushes past her, reaching for the handle.

“This is not the time to _knock_ ,” she says imperiously. “There could be a proposal happening. Right now. To _Imane_.”

They burst through the door, still catching their breath, and it’s Manon who spots them first, at the far end of the entryway: all of the Bakhellal’s, save for Imane, pressed against the closed door to their drawing room.

“Go,” Manon whispers. “ _Go_.”

They tiptoe down the entryway, wincing whenever one of them steps on a particularly noisy spot on the floor, and Mrs. Bakhellal whips her head around.

“What are you all doing here?” She hisses once they’re close enough.

“Mr. Alaoui is in there, isn’t he?” Alexia asks, and Mrs. Bakhellal sighs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

“I don’t know how you found out about that,” she whispers, “but yes, he is, so just…stay quiet.”

She presses her ear back against the door. Next to her, her husband leans against her for support, his other hand resting on a cane, and on her other side, her son towers over her, pressed into a corner of the door. He turns back to the four of them with a grin, raising his eyebrows.

“Hello there, Banet-Lallemant’s,” he greets them cheerily.

“Idriss.” Lucas returns his smile, slapping a hand against the one he holds out. “When did you get back?”

“ _Shh_.” Mr. and Mrs. Bakhellal hiss together, and Lucas bites down on his lip, smothering a laugh into his sleeve.

“I can’t hear anything,” Emma complains, and another round of shushing arises.

They all press closer to the door, straining to listen, and Lucas can just make something out, beyond the thick wood. He can hear Alaoui’s voice, low and gentle, and he can hear someone shuffling, the floor creaking under them, but he can’t hear anything else, not until Imane says, clearly enough for it to carry through the door, “ _Yes_. A thousand times yes.”

Next to him, Alexia lets out a shriek.

There’s a pause from within the drawing room.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Mrs. Bakhellal sighs, and she opens the door.

When Lucas sees Alaoui, down on one knee, and Imane, her hands cupping her own cheeks, her eyes shining, he lets out his own strangled cry, a sound that he couldn’t contain even if he tried. It’s like the love inside of him, for Imane, for her family, for his family, even for Alaoui, is too much for his body to contain. It has to come out somehow, and it comes out in an uncontrollable, unidentifiable sound, and, most embarrassingly, a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

Alaoui, who was in the process of rising from his knee, pauses, taking in the sudden crowd nervously.

“Um,” he says.

“We’re getting married,” Imane interrupts him, and this time, all of them let out shocked cries of happiness.

“My girl,” Mrs. Bakhellal murmurs, pulling Imane into a hug.

Alaoui shakes hands with Mr. Bakhellal, then with Idriss, then with Lucas.

“It’s two families, isn’t it?” He asks in response to Lucas’ confused expression, and Idriss laughs, clapping Alaoui on the shoulder.

“This man understands it.” He says sagely. “And you know what, Alaoui? I don’t need to know exactly what happened in Paris that made Imane so upset for those weeks, but what I do need to know is that you’ll never do something like that again.”

Alaoui shakes his head soberly. “Never again,” he swears. “All I want is to make her happy.”

Idriss considers this, then he nods, releasing Alaoui’s shoulder. “I think we’ll be just fine.”

Alaoui _beams_.

Lucas embraces Imane next, throwing himself into a hug with Manon, Alexia, and Emma, and laughing when Imane waves them off.

“Honestly, it’s about time,” Lucas tells her, and Imane smiles, wrinkling her nose at him.

“Thank you.” She says dryly. She pauses, he gaze darting around the room, and when it becomes clear no one is watching them, she lets out a short, bright laugh, gripping onto Lucas’ arm. “Honestly, I—Lucas I’m so happy.” She laughs again, shaking her head at herself as if to say, _Look how hopeless I’ve become now_. “I didn’t think it was possible to feel like this.”

Lucas presses a kiss to the top of her head, his eyes stinging with tears. “You deserve to feel nothing but this,” he murmurs, “nothing but this happy for the rest of your life.”

When he pulls away, they’re both crying.

“Oh no,” Imane groans, wiping away the tears that have managed to escape. “Look what you’ve done.”

“Engaged and crying all in the same day,” Lucas says with a disappointed sigh. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Imane, but you’re a lovesick, soft-hearted fool now, just like the rest of us.”

Imane laughs, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Well.” She sniffs, blinking away another tear. “Perhaps that’s not such a terrible way to be.”

Lucas snaps his fingers at her. “You see? Didn’t I tell you this would happen? Didn’t I say that one day, you would find an exceedingly tolerable man, and then you would be in trouble?”

“Oh, that’s right. You did.” Imane squints towards Alaoui, who’s laughing in a corner of the room alongside Idriss and Manon. “I wouldn’t say he’s exceedingly tolerable,” she says lightly, cocking her head as she considers him. “Just tolerable.”

“You need to raise your standards, then.”

Imane pats him on the cheek. “Perhaps. But I’m in love now, and there’s nothing, I daresay, that can be done about that.”

“No,” Lucas agrees, “nothing at all.” He watches as Alaoui catches Imane staring across the room and grins, sending her a horribly awkward wink. Imane puts on a show of rolling her eyes, but she’s still smiling, still looking at Alaoui like he’s the summertime itself come to life.

Lucas is happy for her, for both of them, feeling the type of joyous satisfaction that can only come with the perfect end to a story, but there’s something else within him, something horribly familiar in name, but new in its strength, in the way it grips his entire soul under its fist.

Longing. Consuming and utterly inescapable longing.

Lucas is happy for her, but he can’t help but think of how easy it was for them, in the end, to declare their love, to move past every misunderstanding and every argument, and to say the one thing that lets everyone, even people they haven’t met before, know that they’re together now, that they’re going to be together from her on, and they’re never going to be apart: _We’re getting married_.

Lucas is happy for them, but he wonders if he’ll always have to watch something like this play out, rather than be a part of it. He wonders if he’ll have to watch stories be closed on their perfect endings, while he remains caught between one chapter and the next, and always, always longing.

 _But what if_ , he thinks, absently stroking a hand across his ring finger, feeling the smooth skin and delicate bone there, _what if we were to rewrite the story_?

  
  
  


Mrs. Banet arrives ten minutes later, short of breath and rapidly fanning herself.

“Well?” She demands, her gaze cutting across the room.

Alexia just points towards Alaoui and Imane, who are standing closely together at the back of the room, hands entwined.

Mrs. Banet lets out a long sigh when she sees them.

“Thank heavens,” she mutters, collapsing into the doorframe. “At least _someone_ is getting engaged.”

  
  
  


That night, they go to sleep late.

They overstay what would be considered a polite visit at the Bakhellal’s by hours, too preoccupied with congratulating Imane, teasing Alaoui, and steadily drinking through three bottles of Mr. Bakhellal’s wine. They walk home just before midnight, speculating incessantly about what the wedding will be like, guessing at exactly what happened before that made Alaoui leave for Paris.

“And what of Mr. Demaury? Do you think he’s returning as well?”

It takes Lucas a moment to realize the question is being directed towards him. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, tilting his head back to watch the night sky. “Probably not.” It looks like the stars are swimming in a pot of ink, it’s so dark.

“Isn’t it so romantic?” Alexia sighs. “Imane and Mr. Alaoui, I mean. After all they’ve been through, they found their way back to each other at last.”

Manon laughs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It’s a fairy-tale ending.”

“No. You know what they say: every ending is just a new beginning.”

“They do say that, don’t they?”

Beaufort is quiet when they return, and dark, only a few candles burning lowly in the windows. Their creaking footsteps, whispered _goodnights_ , and softly closing doors echo through the house, a brief stirring before it all falls silent again, blanketed under stars, serenaded by the gentle symphony of a summer night.

Lucas slides into bed, curling onto his side and sighing into his pillow. He wishes that he had been able to pull Alaoui aside for one fleeting moment, in the midst of all the congratulatory handshakes and air kisses, to quietly ask him, _How is he? Where is he?_

He doesn’t even know what he would prefer to hear: that Demaury is actually staying at Champrès? That he’ll be coming by the Bakhellal residence tomorrow for tea? That he’s back at Arbrenne, playing cards with Daphné? That he’s sad? Lonely? That he too feels as though he’s missing a part of himself?

Lucas rolls onto his back, peering into the vacuous darkness of his ceiling. “What am I supposed to do?” He whispers.

The ceiling, just like the map, has no answer for him.

He groans, rolling onto his side again and pulling the covers over this head, willing himself to fall into the blissful peace of sleep.

But that is when the knocking begins: three thunderous, echoing raps to their front door.

Luca’ head pops out of the covers. He peers over at the window, but can see nothing except the ink-pot sky.

Three more knocks come. The dogs begin to bark.

“What the hell,” Lucas mutters. He throws the covers off, surging up from the bed and hastily lighting a candlestick.

He opens his door the same moment everyone else does, six heads peering into the dark hallway.

Alexia is standing in her doorway, wearing a thick blanket like a cape. “What’s going on?” She asks around a yawn.

“There’s someone at the door,” Mr. Banet says calmly, walking past Lucas, holding another lit candlestick aloft. His wife one step behind him, wrapping a shawl tightly around her shoulders.

Emma emerges from her room, sliding her arms into a thin robe. “Do you think Imane and Alaoui have tried to elope?” She asks dryly.

Her mother sends her a withering look as she passes her. “Do shut up, Emma.”

They follow Mr. Banet downstairs in various states of dress, rubbing at their eyes and squinting into the candlelight, wincing when three more booming knocks land.

“Do you owe someone money?” Lucas asks Mr. Banet, and his aunt smacks him on the back of his head.

They are, all of them, expecting everything from the most unusual late-night interloper to the most mundane, but despite the range of potential scenarios they are imagining in their minds, none of them are expecting it when Mr. Banet opens the door, and Lady Sylvie du Ferte-Cravon comes striding into their entryway.

“Mrs. Banet is it?” She barks before any of them finish their stiff bows. “And your…offspring?”

Mrs. Banet blinks, her mouth dropping open. “Ah…yes. Yes! These are my daughters: Alexia, Emma, and Manon, and you know my nephew, Lucas Lallemant.”

Lady Sylvie stares at them as though she’s laying her eyes upon a rotted garden. It makes Lucas grit his teeth.

“Charming,” Lady Sylvie says flatly. 

“My lady,” Mr. Banet interjects, “may I get you a cup of tea, or—”

“No.” Her eyes cut sharply to Lucas. “I need to speak to Mr. Lallemant. Alone.”

Lucas balks, wondering if he misheard her, but Lady Sylvie continues to stare at him, her lips pressed into a thin line, and Lucas can feel the weight of every gaze in the room piercing into his skin.

Something sharp and unpleasant twists in his stomach. He follows Lady Catherine into the drawing room, still holding onto his candlestick, feeling like a caught rabbit when the door shuts behind him. Right between the tiger’s jaws.

Lady Sylvie paces to the fireplace. She carries herself proudly, arms unmoving at her sides, shoulders pressed back. It reminds Lucas, naturally, of Demaury, of the way he would stand in the corner of a ballroom, or between two gold birdcages. The posture of a toy soldier.

(He doesn’t think of him in a dim drawing room, moonlight curling around his shoulders, softening him at the edges, his head lowering when Lucas says something that makes him feel shy.)

“You must know of my reason for coming,” Lady Sylvie says, and her voice is a knife to the pleasant tapestry Lucas was weaving with his thoughts.

“No.” Lucas protests quietly. _How could I possibly know?_ “I cannot account for the pleasure—” 

“Enough.” Lady Sylvie hisses. Her face is made up on barely-contained contempt and Lucas stares at her in shock.

He can’t think of anything he’s done, at least lately, to incur such wrath from her.

“I have heard a rumour,” Lady Sylvie says, “of a most shocking nature. A rumour that implied _my_ nephew…” Her mouth twists distastefully, like she’s swallowing back bile. “My nephew made an offer to you.”

The room closes in on Lucas like a collapsing wave.

 _Oh God no_ , he thinks wildly.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard, fighting to keep his face from giving anything away. _Who told her?_ “An offer?” He manages to ask as naturally as possible. “Of what?”

“You know what,” Lady Sylvie says sharply. “And it is an abomination.” She returns to the fireplace, staring him down with her chin held high. “Now, I cannot and will not understand what the benefit of spreading such a rumour would be for you, Mr. Lallemant, but if you think that you can blackmail my nephew—”

“ _Blackmail_?”

“You thought you could smear his name with your own? You thought you could gain a spot of _favour_? You, with no inheritance to speak of and barely a home, if you could call this place such a thing, a deceased set of parents with no value to their names, and relations that know no shortage of scandal, from what I hear, including a botched _elopement_ from the eldest daughter. Did you ever think that anyone, least of all my nephew, would allow the shades of Arbrenne to be thus polluted?”

Lucas isn’t sure if he wants to burst into hysterical laughter or scream. “I don’t want anything from your nephew.”

“Then what, pray tell, would be the purpose of fabricating such a rumour—”

“I did not fabricate that rumour!” Lucas cries incredulously. “I’ve never even heard of it!”

Lady Sylvie tilts her chin up, narrowing her eyes at him. Like that, she looks more like a crow than a tiger, picking off pieces of Lucas until there’s nothing left. “Let me be clear.” She says slowly, taking one step towards him. “My nephew would never, ever engage in such an unspeakable sin. I do not know what clever scheme you thought you could carry out, but it ends here. You must swear to me, Mr. Lallemant: you will not see him, you will not speak to him, and you will keep your vile deviance away from him. Do you understand?”

Lucas can’t breathe. The room is pressing more heavily onto him, cracking his ribs under its weight, bone splintering into soft tissue. Shame is running through his veins, creeping across his skin, whispering into his ear a hymn he knows by heart.

_You should be ashamed._

He’s tired.

He’s so _fucking_ tired.

“Oh, I understand,” he says. “I understand you have used your own prejudice and your narrow mind to come to one, single conclusion. I understand that you believe your word is akin to God’s, but understand this, Lady Sylvie,” Lucas takes his own step forward, “I will make no such promise to you. You cannot control me, and you cannot control him.”

“You _insolent_ boy.” Lady Sylvie surges forward, her face twisting into something ugly and hateful.

“I’m not ashamed of myself.” Lucas holds her gaze, willing himself not to waver. “But I think that you, Lady Sylvie, you should be.”

Lady Sylvie makes a wordless, outraged noise. She peers down her nose at Lucas, her face purpling with anger.

“It’s far better that your parents are dead,” she spits at him, and her voice is pure venom biting into his skin. “So they cannot see you now, and have to live with the unbearable shame and disgust.”

That is what makes Lucas falter, his eyes beginning to burn, his bravado slipping, and he can’t take much more of this. _He can’t_.

“You may speak of me however you wish, but I will not allow you to speak of my parents,” he says shakily. He realizes he’s been picking at the skin around his thumb and when he releases it, a drop of blood spills onto the floor. “You have done nothing but insult me since you arrived here tonight, and cannot possibly have anything else to say to me, so I must ask you to leave.”

He breaks for the door, gripping on the handle and throwing it open, only to see every member of the Banet family gathered there, staring at Lucas with varied expressions of shock.

Lady Sylvie brushes past them with a huff. “Never in my _life_ have I been treated so heinously,” she mutters, sending one last poisonous glare to Lucas before she disappears out of the front door, her driver following closely behind her.

No one speaks for an entire minute.

Lucas thinks he might be shaking, but he can’t tell. He doesn’t even feel like he’s inside of his own body, or his own head. He’s outside of the window, distantly watching himself crumble to pieces as the truth comes out, in the ugliest way it possibly could have.

“What—” Mrs. Banet starts, and he pushes past them, running for the stairs. It’s too much for him to take.

“Lucas!” Alexia calls after him.

“For once in your entire _life_ ,” Lucas roars, “leave me alone!”

He slams his bedroom door closed, locks it, and buries himself beneath the covers on his bed, wishing that the night sky could just swallow him whole, and never spit him back out again.

  
  
  


He doesn’t know how much time passes before the gentle, tentative knock comes to his door.

He ignores it, rolling onto his side and curling in on himself.

But the knock comes again.

“Lucas, I’m not leaving until you open the door.”

Manon. Lucas knows it’s very likely she will post herself in front of his door all night if she has to, so he sighs, rising from the bed and slowly moving towards the door, opening it only a crack, only enough so that he can see a sliver of her face.

“Hello,” she says softly.

“Hello,” Lucas murmurs back after a moment.

“Can I come in? Please?”

Reluctantly, Lucas lets her in.

She’s wearing one of her mother’s shawls, carrying a candlestick that’s nearly burnt out.

“I want you to know something,” she tells Lucas quietly as he closes the door behind her. “We are your family, Lucas and we love you. No matter what anyone else says, we will always love you.”

Lucas stares at her. “But how can you—”

“I saw you two, you know,” she says, and a cold fear grips onto Lucas’ lungs and _squeezes._ “I saw the way he touched you, outside of the inn. I saw the way he looked at you, the way he…” She smiles. “He gave you his coat, Lucas.”

“That wasn’t—”

“I think he’s in love with you,” Manon says, and her voice is low, barely more than a whisper, but her words are plain, ringing with clarity. “And after hearing the way you speak of him, I think that you…” She bites down on her lip, cutting herself off, but the unspoken end of her sentence hangs in the air between them.

Lucas shakes his head. “No, he…” The denial is heavy in his throat, choking with the sickly taste of a lie, the same lie he always tells himself, the same lie he’s been telling the entire world for years, and he feels the same as he did when he stared down Lady Sylvie, exhausted within the roots of his soul. _God_ , he wants to feel something other than the need to hide himself away.

“He did,” he tells Manon, so softly he can hardly hear himself. “He did, but I don’t know if he still—Manon, I don’t know, I don’t—”

Manon’s face falls. “Oh, Lucas.” She lowers her candlestick to his bedside table and pulls him into a hug, rubbing a soothing hand down his back. “Lucas, it’s alright.”

“They’re all going to hate me,” Lucas babbles into her shoulder. Hot, wet tears pool in his eyes, and he lets them fall. “They all know now, and I’m going to be cast out, I’m going to lose all of you, and I don’t even know what it’s all _for_ , what was the point if—”

“The point,” Manon says fiercely, holding onto him even more tightly, “is that you can be exactly who you are, Lucas.”

Lucas shakes his head, tears smearing across Mrs. Banet’s shawl. “But I can’t be that, don’t you get it? I _can’t_. I’ll lose everything.”

“No you won’t.” Manon pulls away from him, holding onto his arms. “Lucas, listen to me. Mama doesn’t hate you. Neither does Papa. Neither does Alexia or Emma. They _love_ you.”

“ _How_?” Lucas asks helplessly. He feels like the candle’s wick, burnt down to the very end of himself. “How do you know that?”

“Because they’re good people, Lucas, and they know what’s really right, and what’s really wrong.” She grips onto his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Remember what I said to you, that first night you came here?”

 _We’re your family now, and we look after each other_.

He nods.

“That has never, ever changed. Trust me, Lucas, everything will be alright. You’ll see.”

  
  
  


Manon leaves, ordering him to sleep with a kiss to the crown of his head, leaving behind the candlestick that has now burnt out, a charred, smoking wick all that remains in the brass holder.

Lucas doesn’t even attempt to sleep. He knows he won’t be able to.

Instead, he sits on his windowsill, watching the stars.

He wants to believe Manon, that nothing will change now that everyone knows, that they’ll all continue to treat Lucas the same as they’ve always done, but the notion feels both too unrealistic and too idealistic.

 _In one way or another_ , he thinks, _everything changes now_.

Yet Manon still loves him. He still has some family that cares for him. There still exists something that can tether the starry-headed soft-hearted Lucas Lallemant to the Earth, and he’s so grateful for it, for her, that he could cry all over again.

He shifts on the sill, pressing his forehead into the glass, and he considers moving onto the roof, wrapping himself in a blanket and watching as the stars begin to fade, but after everything that’s happened tonight, it doesn’t feel like enough. He’s exhausted, but he’s restless. He’s terrified, but he also feels free, in a way. They know the truth now, all of them. He couldn’t hide any more if he wanted to.

And he as good as told Lady Sylvie that he is, in fact, exactly what she thought he was.

The sudden memory of that part of their argument draws a single hysterical laugh from his chest.

“Fuck.” He tilts his forehead against the glass, but the stars feel too far away like this, so he rises from the windowsill, and crosses to his dresser. He hastily clothes himself in a pair of trousers, a loose shirt, and, without thinking, the coat the Demaury lent him, sliding his arms into the oversized sleeves and burying his face into the thick collar.

It still smells like him.

With great ease, the kind that can only come from years of practice, he tiptoes down to the kitchen, puts on his boots in the dark, and slips through the back door without anyone noticing.

He doesn’t put any thought to his destination, just lets his feet carry him somewhere, wrapping the coat tightly around himself, tilting his head up, back, to catch the final few minutes of the stars.

It’s not quite dawn when he reaches the edge of his field.

A thick mist hovers just above the grass, dew-damp and cold, the last of the fireflies swimming between the stalks of wildflowers and tall blades of grass. Overhead, the sky is beginning to shift, indigo to violet to lilac on the pale horizon, the first stirring of a rising sun.

It’s cool enough, that when Lucas exhales, his breath comes out in a cloud.

A morning dove coos from the willow tree above the lake, but otherwise it’s silent, the in-between time of twilight and dawn, the breath held before the new beginning.

He takes another step into the tall grass, and the hem of the coat sweeps over the damp grass, drops of water clinging to the thick wool. After the night he had, this moment, so still and so delicate, is blissfully peaceful.

He releases another cloud of breath into the air. He rolls his shoulders down, wincing when a series of cracks ripples through his spine. He turns on the spot, stretching his arms overhead, and that’s when he notices the figure coming out of the trees, and he lets out a sharp gasp.

His arms drop to his sides.

The figure is tall, with a head of thick brown hair, and broad shoulders that slope down, not the stiff posture Lucas used to recognize him by, but something softer, looser, something that is so much more undeniably _him_.

“Eliott.” Lucas says softly, and there’s a sensation inside of him, not a repressive, tightening one, but something that is expansive, something that turns his chest into an endless, open sky, his heart a burning comet.

He’s dressed similarly to Lucas, like he left in a hurry: loose shirt, open coat, hair an utter mess.

He doesn’t notice Lucas, at first. His head is low, his eyes on his feet.

“Eliott,” Lucas says again, but it comes out barely more than a breath, and Lucas thinks it will be too quiet for him to hear, is opening his mouth to call to him when he suddenly lifts his head, eyes searching, and when they land on Lucas, he stops, mid-stride.

There’s a moment where they do nothing but watch each other.

Overhead, the sun just crests over the horizon.

Lucas notices the way his chest heaves with a deep breath, notices how his hands tremble at his sides.

He looks just the same as Lucas feels: exhausted, terrified, exhilarated.

Lucas goes to him.

“Hello,” he murmurs, too awestruck by the sight of him in the dawning light to say anything else. His eyes match the sky again, tinged with lilac and the palest, calmest blue.

He’s so beautiful it _aches_.

“My coat,” Eliott says, his eyes widening when they travel from Lucas’ face down to his feet. “You kept it.”

“Kept it?” Lucas frowns running his hands over the lapels self-consciously. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I—I don’t.” He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Lucas thinks, _to hell with it_ , says, “It smells like you.”

Eliott's face falls, as though Lucas has just told him something utterly devastating.

“What’s wrong?” Lucas asks, and Eliott sighs, running his hands through his hair.

“I know my aunt came to see you.” He shuts his eyes tightly. “I’m so—I am so sorry. I don’t know how I could ever make amends for such behaviour.”

“No.” Lucas lays a hand on his arm, shaking his head, and Eliott falls silent, staring intently at the place where Lucas is touching him.

“You are not responsible for her,” Lucas tells him, squeezing his arm gently. “She…” He frowns, remembering the deep wounds that were reopened by her words, but he also remembering the way he turned them around on her, the way he felt infinitely powerful when he refused to let her cow him into submission. “She said cruel things to me, and she hurt me. But she—she thought I started a rumour about us.” He feels his mouth quirk up at the corner. “She thought I was blackmailing you.”

Eliott lets out a high, disbelieving laugh. “She _what_?”

“I know.” Lucas releases his arm, but he stays close, tilting his chin back to meet Eliott’s eyes and finding that now, he doesn’t mind having to do so. “She ordered me to stay away from you.”

“I know she did.” Eliott’s jaw clenches. “She had no right to say any of those things to you. She had no right to show up at your _home_.”

“Eliott,” Lucas says seriously. “You have nothing to apologize for. If anything, I’m the one who should be making amends. After everything you’ve done for Manon, and, I suspect, for Imane, I should be thanking you.”

“No, I didn’t—” Eliott’s eyes lower. His cheeks flush. “I appreciate your kindness, but really I did very little.”

“That’s not true.” Lucas says fiercely. “I know it isn’t.” He needs him to know that Lucas sees how kind and generous he is. Lucas sees the good he can do for others and think nothing of it. Lucas sees him, and he knows him. Really knows him.

“Miss Manon and Miss Bakhellal, they are—they’re dear to me, and I care to see them happy, but you must know that…” Eliott lifts his head, staring at Lucas intently. “It was all for you. All of it.”

Lucas blinks. Then blinks again. _Oh_ , he thinks.

The sun climbs higher still, breaking through the thick branches of the willow, casting Eliott in streams of gold.

“When you spoke with my aunt,” he continues, “you said some things to her, things that have given me more hope than I scarcely believed I could ever have.”

 _Hope_. It’s a fluttering bird between their hearts.

“If,” Eliott says slowly, “the feelings that you held last April haven’t changed, then tell me, please. My own feelings and desires have not changed, but one word from you will silence me on them forever.”

Lucas’ cheek twitches.

“But, if your feelings have changed…” Eliott’s face is as open as Lucas has ever seen it, every emotion laid bare for him to see: fear, trepidation, _hope_. “Then I must tell you. You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I _love_ —” His voice breaks on the word. “I love you.” He swallows heavily. “And I—I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

And there, Lucas’ entire world is upended, yet again.

But this time—this time, he smiles.

Eliott stares at him, his face hovering somewhere between disbelief and jubilation.

“Well, then.” Lucas says. He strokes one hand down the front of Eliott’s coat that he still wears, the wool warm and soft underneath his fingers. He bites down on his bottom lip. “I suppose there’s no need for me to return this, then.”

Eliott blinks. “You—” He starts, wariness evident in his tone, and Lucas simply has to kiss him. He must.

So he does.

He surges forward, cupping Eliott’s cheeks in his palms and guiding his face down while he rises onto his toes, and he kisses him.

This is something Lucas has thought about before: what it would be like to kiss Eliott Demaury. It’s something he thought of when they first met, and then he thought of it again, drenched in rain and furiously indignant, and then again, in Eliott’s darkened drawing room, with nothing but moonlight filling the space between them.

He thought about it, yes, but his mind was unable to conjure up anything that comes close to this.

Eliott’s lips, soft and pliant against his; Eliott’s skin, cool and soft, the prickling touch of stubble kissing at his fingertips; Eliott’s arms, strong and solid, wrapping around him, bringing Lucas impossibly closer, bending down as Lucas arches up, tilting his head to meet him in another kiss, one that’s deeper, longer.

And this, _this_ —when Eliott giggles against his lips, smoothing his hands down Lucas’ back and Lucas laughs along with him, their teeth bumping together, their noses squishing between their faces.

Lucas can _taste_ Eliott’s smile. He could never have dreamed such a perfect thing.

He is both the comet and the night sky, he is the infinite stretch and the intent hurtling down it. He is everything all at once.

Is this really what love is? The love that his parents wrote about? The love that exists in poetry and verse? He’s never felt anything like it before. It feels like being free, and being held. It feels like being safe and being wild.

“I love you.” Lucas whispers into Eliott’s lips, and Eliott pauses, his mouth going slack. He pulls back from Lucas with bright, shining eyes.

“Say it again.”

Lucas laughs, leaning in for another kiss. “No, I won’t.”

“Please?” Eliott murmurs. His fingers dig into Lucas’ back, sinking into the thick wool of the coat. “Please, Lucas.”

Lucas makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he cups Eliott’s jaw in his palm, stroking his thumb down his cheek, across the tender skin just beneath his eye. “Eliott Demaury,” he says, and he feels so full, so _much_ that he can barely form the words. “You have found your way into my every thought, climbed inside of every one of my dreams, and made the world anew for me. I love you. I want to watch the sun rise with you for the rest of my life.”

When Eliott cries, Lucas brushes away his tears with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” Eliott sniffs, and Lucas just shakes his head, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I love you,” he whispers into the damp skin there.

Eliott turns his head to capture his lips in kiss. “You’re my dream,” he whispers, between one shared breath and another. He lifts his hands to hold Lucas’ face and Lucas whines, arching away from his touch.

“Your hands are cold,” he complains, and Eliott laughs, lowering his arms to slide his hands beneath his coat, teasing at the space on Lucas’ hip where his shirt is untucked, grazing against the bare skin.

“Then warm them up for me.” Eliott leers at him, voice pitched low and rough.

“Mr. Demaury!” Lucas gasps, delightedly scandalized, and he wraps his arms around Elliot’s neck, giggling into another kiss, and another, until he can’t keep track of where one kiss ends and another begins. Until he doesn’t want to try.

Morning settles, young and promising, over the river and the willow tree, over the footpath and the road it leads towards, over the trees and wildflowers and still waking windows of houses. It settles over Lucas Lallemant’s field, hideaway of the soft-hard heart and sacred place to the starry head, and it settles over Lucas himself, held between the palms of pure happiness, smiling into kiss after kiss, tightening his hold on Eliott and thinking,

 _I will chase you across the sky until I find you_. _In every life._

  
  
  


They leave Lucas’ field holding hands.

Eliott tells Lucas about his trip to Paris to visit Alaoui, how he talked him into coming back, and how he helped him rehearse his proposal.

“What I wouldn’t have given to see that.” Lucas snickers.

Lucas tells him about the events directly after the proposal, how Imane’s older brother Idriss is home from Paris, and how he seems to be grudgingly approving of Alaoui, even after everything that’s happened.

“That’s good,” Eliott says with a smile. “And I’m sure the more he knows Sofiane, the more he’ll approve of him. He’s wonderful.”

Lucas, because he can’t help himself, rises onto his toes and kisses Eliott on the cheek. “You’re wonderful,” he tells him, ruffling his free hand through his hair.

It’s as though now that he can touch him, now that he really knows what it feels like, he’s unable to stop. He doesn't want to stop. He wants to wrap himself in Eliott’s arms and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. He wants to do nothing but kiss him for hours. He wants to comb his fingers through his hair, he wants to stroke the back of his neck, he wants to feel Eliott’s hands on every part of him.

He has to bite down on his lip at the last thought, his cheeks burning with the series of images that flutter across his mind like playing cards.

Lucas is in love. He loves Eliott Demaury, in a way he never thought would be possible for him, with anyone. He loves and he is _loved_ , and it’s all so dizzyingly beautiful and impossible that he keeps having to look over at Eliott to ensure that he’s still there, that this isn’t a particularly cruel dream, or a drawing he’s fallen into in the pages of his notebook, a made-up constellation that perfectly matches the freckles at the base of Eliott’s neck.

He brings Eliott’s hand up to his mouth and kisses his wrist.

“Am I coming with you, then?”

“I hope so,” Eliott says. Even now, after they’ve professed their love, and they’ve kissed so many times that Lucas’ lips feel imprinted with the shape of his, he still manages to look hesitant, nervous. “But I know you’re close to your family, and I know you’re meant to inherit Beaufort. I, um—” He stumbles on a patch of uneven ground and curses softly, tightening his grip on Lucas’ hand as he rights himself, ignoring Lucas’ muffled laughter. “I would like to help you, um, maintain that house.” When Lucas stares at him in unblinking silence, he hastens to add, “I don’t want to assume anything, and please do not consider this like a debt that needs to be paid, or charity, or—” He pulls Lucas to stop at the edge of an apple orchard, his eyes unfailingly earnest. “What I am saying, is that I would like to help keep Beaufort in your family, by paying for its upkeep. I would like to do that, for you, if you’ll let me.”

Lucas can feel his hackles rising in an automatic defence, something prickly and bitter that wants to refuse any offer of money, but it’s an old reflex, one borne out of embarrassment and shame, and he fights against it. “Eliott, that’s more money than I could ask you to—”

Eliott shakes his head. “It’s not. I’ve, ah, thought about this before, actually. A few times. I have the money, Lucas. It wouldn’t make things difficult for me. Honestly, it’s the only thing I want to use it on. Well, that, and on Daphy, and on your university costs.”

Lucas’ mind turns completely blank for an entire minute. “ _What_?”

“I know you’re an independent person, and despite what my aunt says, I know you don’t give a damn about the money, but I have it, Lucas. I have more of it than anyone ever needs, so I want…” Eliott looks down at their hands, stroking his thumb across Lucas’ knuckles. “I want to do these things for you. For your family.”

It’s everything that someone like Lucas would ever dream of—a horribly rich, terribly generous partner, willing to provide them with whatever their heart desires—but it’s never been what Lucas dreams of. It’s never been what he wants.

But rather than outright refuse, he considers Eliott’s words carefully. He thinks of being able to keep the house for his cousins, as long as they need it. He thinks of finally being able to afford to go to Paris to study, sitting in on the incredible lectures Arthur is always writing to him about.

 _I know you’re an independent person_ , Eliott said, and Lucas is, and always will be that. But perhaps an offer like this isn’t about losing independence. Not when it comes from someone who knows him so well, who only wants to offer as much as Lucas is willing to take.

The longer Lucas is silent, lost in thought, the more nervous Eliott grows, shifting on the spot and lowering his eyes to the ground, then shifting them over to an apple tree, then to the sky, anywhere but at Lucas’ face.

“I will consider your offer,” Lucas says eventually. He runs his free hand up Eliott’s arm, drifting across his shoulder, cupping the side of his neck. “I know you want to do these things for me because you care, and I appreciate that, but…” He bites down on his lip. “It’s a lot, Eliott.”

Eliott nods. He turns his face into Lucas’ palm, pressing a kiss to his skin. “I understand,” he says gently. “We can discuss it more, if that would make you more comfortable.”

At that, Lucas can’t do anything but smile. _He really knows me_. “Thank you.”

Eliott beams at him, with a smile brighter than summer sunshine.

“I’d like to come with you,” Lucas tells him, tugging Eliott back onto the footpath by their linked hands. “To Arbrenne, I mean.”

He didn’t think it was possible for Eliott to smile any wider, but he does, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Really?”

Lucas nods, sending a blush towards his feet.

“What would you prefer to tell your family? That you will be coming there as a friend? A great academic mind who I admire?”

The night before, as distant as it felt in the midst of the morning sunlight and Eliott’s soft lips, comes back to Lucas with a vengeance, and a wave of nauseous dread courses through him at the thought of what might await him at home.

“Actually, I think it’s best just to tell them the truth. They overheard everything that Lady Catherine said to me, and well, everything I said to her, so. They know it all now.”

Eliott thinks on this, his brow furrowed as he takes in Lucas’ words.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, after a moment. “They should never have found out like that. It should have been your choice to tell them, if you ever did decide to tell them.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Lucas knocks his shoulder into Eliott’s, squinting up at him against the sunlight. “It’s terrifying, knowing that they know, but I think…as terrifying as it is, it’s a relief, to have the truth out.”

Eliott squeezes his hand. “I understand.”

“But can you, um, can you come with me? When I tell them? You don’t have to be in the room, but I think it would comfort me to know you’re there, in the event it goes…poorly.”

Eliott’s face falls, his mouth turning down sadly, but he nods, lifting their hands to wrap his arm around Lucas’ shoulders, drawing him close so he can press a kiss to the crown of his head. “Sometimes the people we love can really surprise us,” he murmurs into his hair. “I have faith in your family, but I know how scary this is.” Another lingering kiss is pressed to his temple. “Of course I’ll come with you.”

  
  
  


Their hands part before they reach the road, and they each take a step away from each other.

It’s strange, how Lucas has spent his entire life without knowing the feeling of Eliott Demaury’s hand against his own, but now that he’s forced to be without it again, he can hardly stand it. He has to clasp his hands behind his back to keep himself from reaching for him.

When Lucas sees Beaufort’s chimney just above the reach of the wych elms, he begins to tense, and Eliott chances a comforting touch to his back, rubbing between his shoulders.

“No matter what happens,” he tells Lucas, “I will be here for you.”

Eliott walks him to the back of the house, smiling when Lucas blows him a kiss over his shoulder. Lucas takes that smile and keeps it, folding it into something small that can be tucked away into his pocket, a piece of sunshine to carry with him into the house, to soothe some of the anxiety that’s making his chest feel tight, like a string about to snap.

He enters into the kitchen silently, letting out a breath of relief when he finds it empty. He leaves his boots by the door, and steps up into the hallway.

One of the kitchen stairs groans under his heel, a protest of old age and overuse, and a head pops out of the drawing room.

“Lucas.” Alexia says. Her voice is made of half surprise and half something Lucas can’t name, and she takes off at a run down the hallway, not stopping until she crashes into him, bringing him into a hug that threatens to crush his ribs.

“We were worried you left,” she says, muffled into his shoulder.

Lucas frowns into her hair, confused. “Left?”

She pulls away from the hug, nodding. “We went to your room earlier, to see if you were awake, but Emma opened your door and we saw you were gone.” Her eyes are shining, wet at the corners, and Lucas presses his lips together, guilt a heavy weight on the crown of his head.

“At first I was upset with you,” Alexia says softly, “because it meant you didn’t trust us, that you thought that we would hate you, or force you to leave. But then I thought of how awful it must be, to have something like that come out without your consent. So, I understand.” She pauses, her eyes lowering to a spot around Lucas’ middle. “I think I might…really understand.”

There’s something particular to the way she shapes her words, creating an implicit depth there, and Lucas’ mouth drops open. “You do?”

Alexia shrugs. “I don’t completely know, but I think…possibly. With both. I don’t know for sure, but what I do know is that you cannot help who you fall in love with. You can’t.”

Lucas feels his own eyes grow hot with tears. “Alexia,” he murmurs, reeling from her confession. How long has she felt such a way? How long has she kept it to herself, in silence? As long as Lucas has?

“Oh, come here,” Alexia laughs wetly, and hugs Lucas again, holding him around the shoulders. “I love you, and that will never change, alright? We’re family.”

Lucas holds her tightly to him, his eyes squeezed shut against an onslaught of tears.

Tears of pure, overwhelming _relief_.

“I love you too,” he whispers.

“Uh,” a voice behind them says, and they break apart, wiping hastily at their eyes and there’s Emma, her hands flat at her sides, her hair braided into two messy plaits.

“I’m the same,” she says to Lucas, then she frowns, turning towards Alexia. “Well, not the same, about, the...” She waves a hand vaguely through the air.

Alexia makes a face. Emma sticks her tongue out at her.

“I mean that you’re still my family, too.” She pats Lucas on the shoulder. “I can’t fault you for doing the very thing that I do.”

Lucas raises his eyebrows. “Which is?”

“You know,” another ambiguous flutter of fingers through the air, “men.”

Out of every scenario Lucas imagined on the way home, the least probable of them all was this one: him, Alexia, and Emma all laughing together in the hallway, deep full laughs that steal their breath away and make them grip onto each other’s arms to stay upright, before collapsing into one, many-limbed embrace.

He didn’t imagine it. He couldn’t have.

 _Trust me, Lucas,_ Manon told him last night. _Everything will be alright. You’ll see._

And maybe, just maybe, it will be.

  
  
  


Manon comes downstairs as well, and Lucas feels himself tear up all over again when he sees her.

“Didn’t I tell you?” She asks him with a grin, and he laughs, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t let myself believe it,” he admits, and Manon strokes a thumb across his cheek.

“Well, you don’t have to worry,” she says gently. “We’ll always be here for you, Lucas.”

Her words echo something said to him earlier, by someone else, and Lucas’ eyes widen, so caught up in the indescribable relief of acceptance that he nearly forgot.

“I need to tell you all something.” He glances at the stairs. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Banet?”

“They’re still upstairs,” Alexia says, “but come on.” She grips onto Lucas’ hand. “Let’s go to the kitchen for some tea, and you can tell us what this,” she raises an eyebrow, “news is.”

In lieu of telling them, he brings Eliott into the kitchen.

“Are you alright?” Eliott asks when Lucas opens the kitchen door, and Lucas nods, waving him inside.

He shuts the door quietly, and when he turns around, Eliott is standing awkwardly by the table, while all three girls stare at him in surprise.

“Ah, good morning.” Eliott says, and Alexia’s mouth drops open. He glances at Lucas over his shoulder. _Did you tell them?_ He mouths.

Lucas lifts one shoulder. _Most of it._

“I knew it.” Alexia blurts out. Her hands are pressed to her cheeks, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Emma frowns at her. “Knew what?”

“They’re in _love_ ,” Alexia crows.

When Eliott just smiles, she lets out a small shriek, jumping on the spot.

“I _knew_ it!”

Manon winks at Eliott. Emma’s gaze darts between them, her brow creased in concentration, until something seems to dawn for her, there, and she grins, pointing a finger towards Eliott.

“Well done, Lucas,” she says admiringly, and Elliot, Alexia, and Manon burst into laughter.

Eliott is the one to make tea for all of them, watching the pot boil while they seat themselves at the kitchen table, Emma and Alexia talking over one another to ask Lucas questions about them: _Was it love at first sight? No, wait, wasn’t it hate at first sight? When did you two actually find the time to talk? Didn’t you go to his home a few weeks ago? Eliott—I can call you Eliott, now right?—do you have any cousins who are single?_

It goes on like this, with Lucas attempting to answer questions the best he can without revealing too much, while Manon watches on in amusement, and Eliott blushes.

“Look at him,” Alexia says dreamily, watching Eliott pour the tea into five matching cups. “He’s the perfect husband already.”

“I cannot believe I have to remind you of this, Alexia, but he and I can’t get married.”

Alexia pouts. “Takes some of the romance out of it,” she grumbles.

Manon drops her chin into her hand. “But you will live with him, won’t you?”

Eliott lowers himself onto the bench next to Lucas, giving him a look that says, _The choice is yours._

It’s such a small moment, a brief passing of understanding between two people, but for Lucas, who has craved few things more in life than to be so perfectly understood, it’s everything. Eliott is giving him everything.

“I will,” he says, resting his hand on Eliott’s knee, the back of his neck burning despite how the table blocks the casual, possessive gesture from view.

Manon nods at this, satisfied. “Good.”

Lucas had not, until that very moment, made a decision on Eliott’s offer, but as he stares at his cousins across the table, seeing only pure happiness for him on their faces, he can think of nothing he wants more than to be able to tell them that they will never have to lose this home.

So, he tells them, “Eliott is going to help us support Beaufort, for as long as we need.”

Eliott’s head snaps towards him, a surprised, pleased smile on his face, and Manon, Alexia, and Emma all pause, their tea cups halfway to their mouths.

“Are you serious?” Emma asks quietly. She directs the question at Eliott, who nods.

“This is a beautiful home,” he says. “It should stay with the family that loves it.”

Three tea cups clatter into their saucers, hot liquid spilling over the sides, and three bodies dive around the table, piling onto Eliott in what is, by far, the most aggressive hug Lucas has ever seen.

“Thank you.” Manon says, and Lucas thinks she may be crying now. “I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“There’s nothing to repay,” Eliott tells her gently. “I…would like to consider us family, one day.”

“No,” Alexia says suddenly, extracting herself from the strange hug. She pitches Eliott’s cheeks between her hands. “You’re already family, darling.”

At this, Eliott smiles, so widely that his eyes curve into those sweet half-moons, and he looks over to Lucas, overwhelming relief and happiness written across his face, and Lucas feels himself smiling in return, dropping his chin into his palm.

 _I’m so in love with him_ , he thinks, and every part of him, right down to his soul, sighs.

“This is perfect,” Emma cries happily, hanging off of Eliott’s shoulders. “Our very first brother-in-law, and he’s _rich._ ”

“Emma, honestly.”

“Is there a reason you’re all causing a ruckus down here before ten in the morning?”

All of the overlapping chatter, the laughter, and the teasing dies down at once, as every head hesitantly turns towards the doorway, where Mrs. Banet is standing, her husband waiting just behind her.

When she sees Eliott she gasps, lowering into a curtsey. “Mr. Demaury! I had no idea you had plans to visit us.”

“Oh, no please.” Eliott stands awkwardly from the table, holding a placating hand out. “It was an…unexpected trip.”

“How delightful,” she says, drawing her shawl across her chest. “Do stay for breakfast, Mr. Demaury. We’ll have no trouble adding a place for you.”

“Oh.” Eliott’s eyes dart to Lucas. “That’s a wonderfully generous offer, but I wouldn’t wish to impose, especially not so early.”

Mrs. Banet smiles, clearly charmed. “Nonsense.”

“Mrs. Banet.” Lucas stands as well, just as awkwardly, his shoulders stiff and his head rushing with nerves. “Could I speak to you for a moment? You and Mr. Banet?”

Silence falls upon the room, a heavy, knowing silence that everyone seems to be aware of except Mrs. Banet, who just says, with a wave of her fan, “Very well, then. Come to the drawing room, Lucas.”

Lucas nods, his heart lodged in his throat as he watches her leave, with Mr. Banet following after her, his newspaper tucked under his arm.

Manon rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Everything will be fine, Lucas.” She smiles, tugging on his earlobe. “Trust me.”

Lucas returns an echo of her smile, smoothing his hands down his shirt and stepping around the wooden bench. Emma and Alexia each kiss him on the cheek, and he flushes, waving them away.

“If it seems like they’re not happy,” Emma says sagely, “make sure you mention the ten thousand francs a year.”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Eliott says, and he smiles sheepishly when Lucas frowns at him, unimpressed.

“You’re not being helpful,” he says sourly.

He startles when Eliott bends towards him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and whispering in his ear. “I love you.”

Lucas leans into him, releasing a small, contented sigh into the waves of Eliott’s hair, but then he becomes aware all over again that they have an audience, and he pulls away abruptly.

Alexia, Emma, and Manon are watching them with varying expressions of awe.

“That was so _sweet_ ,” Alexia says, her hands pressed to her cheeks again.

“Lucas, what’s happened to you?” Emma asks, and Lucas makes a rude hand gesture at her.

  
  
  


The walk to the drawing room takes both hours and seconds, with Lucas continuously glancing over his shoulder to the open door of the kitchen, and Manon, Emma, and Alexia continuously urging him onwards, while Eliott sits between them, smiling at Lucas and occasionally blowing him a kiss.

His aunt and uncle are seated at the round table in the drawing room: him with his open newspaper, her with a spot of embroidery that never seems to approach completion, no matter how often he sees it in her hands.

They’re silent as he enters the room, Mrs. Banet watching his approach over her embroidery while Mr. Banet only glances up once from his paper then nods, immediately returning to it.

Lucas stops in front of the table, placing his hands on the edge of it so as to have something to ground himself with, something to keep his hand busy so he doesn’t tear the skin around his thumb open again.

It’s difficult not to think about the last time he was in the drawing room, only hours ago, when Lady Sylvie decided to cut into his every insecurity, and do everything she could within her power to make him feel ashamed, to make him want to hide away.

Yet he didn’t. And he won’t.

(Love made a comet out of Lucas, yes, but he’s always been born of the sky. He’s always been a creature made of something other than this Earth, something that’s as gentle as it is resilient, as mythic as it is practical.)

He takes a deep breath.

“I know you heard my argument with Lady Sylvie last night,” he says, his eyes darting between his aunt and uncle. “I know you heard her accusations towards me, and you heard my defence of them.”

Neither of them say a word. Their faces remain carefully neutral.

Lucas taps a finger against the edge of the table. “I wanted to tell you that it’s true. Well, one part of it is true. I’m, I—” The room feels like it’s closing in on him again, the ceiling pressing him down, but he fights it, takes another breath that fills his lungs, reminds him that he is alive, he is there, he is _loved_ . “I like men. Romantically. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember, and I can’t fight it. I don’t—I don’t think I want to fight it anymore. I know what it means to be this way. I know every negative thing that can come with it, but I didn’t,” he sniffs, rubbing at a corner of his eyes that feels hot, _You’re not going to cry again,_ “I didn’t choose to be this way. I just…am. I am sorry if you are disappointed.”

He leaves the confession there, a tapestry of words that he lays down on the table for them to inspect, _here is the deepest part of me, here is my greatest fear, let me show it to you_ , and he waits.

He’s so scared that he can feel himself trembling.

He’s so relieved he can feel the threads of his heart unwinding.

The top of Mr. Banet’s newspaper folds down. He peers at Lucas over his glasses.

“I could never be disappointed in you, Lucas,” he says, and the words are put so plainly and causally that Lucas is unable to register them at first, staring at his uncle blankly until he understands them, then he smiles, feels a burning behind his eyes, and he really need to accept he’s going to cry again, that just seems to be how the day is unfolding.

Across from him, Mrs. Banet folds her hands together on the table. “I understand now why you had no wish to pursue Miss Farge-Jeanson,” she says shrewdly. “Not your preference, as it were.”

Lucas shakes his head.

She sighs, turning in her chair to face him. “I cannot pretend that I understand it, Lucas, because I don’t. Being the way that you are, it means you shall have a difficult life. People will talk. They will always talk, and rumours may very well follow you wherever you go. You’ll have to contend with prejudice, disgust, and you may lose some of the invitations you used to count on before. However,” she tilts her chin contemplatively, “you may also receive new ones from anyone who likes to add some scandal to their luncheons. But no matter.” She flicks a hand at him. “I do not understand this, Lucas, but that does not change the fact that you are a part of this family. You are my nephew, Saints help me, and that will not change because of this.” She presses a hand to her mouth, her brow furrowing. “I don’t tell any of you four enough, but I do love you.” Her eyes rise to his. “I want you to know that.”

Lucas does cry, then. His heart feels unnaturally light, the weightlessness of it almost more than he can bear, after carrying the heaviness of fear for so long.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Mrs. Banet cocks her head, smiling.

“Worry not, Lucas,” she says, “it will take more than that for you to be rid of us.”

“Um.” Lucas wipes away the tears on his cheeks. “Well, actually, there’s something else I ought to tell you.”

  
  
  


The mood in the kitchen is positive yet tense, with constant reassurances and smiles being passed around the table overtop of a current of stress that flows silently beneath them.

Eliott copes by making tea, refilling cups and reboiling water, but being too nervous to drink his own.

“He’ll be fine,” Manon reassures him, for what must be the fifth time in the last ten minutes. “You’ll see.”

“You keep saying that,” Emma muses from her spot on the windowsill, her legs folded underneath her, a bowl of cherries at her side. “ _You’ll see_.” She wiggles her fingers through the air. “Have you become all-knowing, Manon?”

Manon raises an eyebrow. “I just know enough.”

“Cryptic. Interesting.”

They’re interrupted by a shriek from down the hall, a sound that startles all of them, four heads leaning into the kitchen doorway, watching as Mrs. Banet scurries down the hall, her shawl hanging off of one shoulder, her fan abandoned halfway before she reaches the kitchen.

“ _You_!” She cries when she sees Eliott by the edge of the table, and before any of them can react, she’s throwing herself at him, folding him into a crushing hug.

“You and my Lucas!” Mrs. Banet practically swoons into his ear. “A Lallemant! At the Chateau d’Arbrenne!”

“See?” Manon says smugly. “She’s fine.”

Over Mrs. Banet’s shoulder, Eliott can see Mr. Banet in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, and his glasses sitting low on his nose. The overall effect is that of a stern professor, and Lucas feels as intimidated by him as he was by his lecturers in Paris. He struggles to hold his gaze.

After a moment, the man gives him one single nod, and he smiles, one that’s small, and touched with a wryness at the corners that Eliott immediately likes.

He gives him a nod in return, then becomes distracted by Lucas, stepping into the kitchen just behind his uncle.

His eyes are red like he’s been crying, which makes Eliott’s heart stutter, but then he sees Lucas’ smile, gorgeously happy, and he sees how his uncle claps him on the shoulder, the two of them sharing a knowing look, and Eliott’s heart starts up again, thumping away in his chest because he’s there, looking at the love of his life, surrounded by his perplexing and wonderful family, and the love of his life is looking back at him, grinning so widely that all of his teeth show, and he’s the most beautiful thing Eliott has ever seen.

In that moment, the love Eliott feels—for Lucas, for the Banet’s, for the very world he stands upon—is almost too much for him to bear.

 _I wonder if I’ll become used to being this happy_ , he wonders, and it’s such an overwhelmingly pleasant thought that he thinks it again, and again.

Mrs. Banet finally releases her hold on him, and she takes a step back, surveying the kitchen.

“I think it’s time for us to call for breakfast,” she says with a decisive nod. She pats Eliott on the cheek. “Then we can discuss the ball you’re going to throw at Arbrenne.”

“ _Mama_.” Manon says, exasperated.

Eliott sees Lucas drop his head into his hands.

“I would be happy to discuss that,” Eliott says with a grin, and she pats him on the cheek again, before turning on her heels and ushering everyone out of the kitchen so the cook can begin breakfast, and Lucas takes it as an opportunity to approach him, running a careful finger down Eliott’s forearm, the small touch making him shiver.

“You don’t need to stay,” he murmurs. “I know they can be overwhelming.”

Eliott smiles at him. “I think they’re fantastic.”

“You say that now,” Lucas grumbles, rolling his eyes when Mrs. Banet orders him to leave again. “Come with me.” He tugs on the end of Eliott’s sleeve. “I have something to show you.”

Eliott lets himself be led out of the kitchen, flushing when Mrs. Banet stops him to kiss him messily on the cheek, laughing when Mr. Banet pats him on the shoulder understandingly, and then he lets Lucas show him the map of stars, and he gasps, amazed, not daring to let himself touch it but peering closely at the constellations and the measurements in the margins. _It’s incredible_ , he thinks, and he tells Lucas this, his heart fluttering when Lucas accepts the compliment shyly, making a show of shuffling his papers together, and Eliott really hopes that no one followed them into the study, because he has to kiss him, he _has_ to, and as he presses Lucas back into the table, paper crinkling under his hands, he thinks, _You’re the only star I ever see, in this entire dark sky. You’re my star._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it my loves 🌟 we just have one little epilogue left
> 
> for everyone who has read, commented, given kudos, or come keysmashing into my inbox - thank you so much 🧡 je t'aime toujours


	5. epilogue - not a wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we deserve a soft epilogue, my love
> 
> (utterly sappy and horribly self-indulgent, what else can i say)

On a bright, beautiful morning in early July, the road to the Chateau d’Arbrenne fills with carriages.

They stop just at the base of the front walkway, spilling out trunks and parasols and excited guests from their confines, the pale colours of their dresses and jackets making them look like small cakes, or spring flowers in a greenhouse.

Lucas watches them arrive from his bedroom window, a small smile playing on his lips when he sees Emma and Alexia bounce up the stairs, their arms linked together and their bonnets fluttering in the breeze. He sees Manon just behind them, waiting by the carriage with her parents as another approaches, one without a cover so Chloé and Yann can lean out of it, calling out to Manon and waving.

He lets out a quiet laugh when Chloé nearly falls out of the carriage, and Yann has to pull her back in by her dress.

He’s too preoccupied with watching the procession of arrivals, too giddy at the sight of all of his favourite people in the world convening in one place for one day, that he misses the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway, and misses the way they slow, then stop when they pass by the open door.

He startles when a pair of warm hands touch his waist, smoothing along the richly embroidered material of his waistcoat until they can link together over his stomach. A strong body presses against his back, a pair of gentle lips pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Eliott whispers into his ear, and Lucas grins, biting down on his lip.

“You’ve found me.”

“Mhm.” Eliott kisses his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck. “Are you going to come downstairs to greet your guests? Or are you going to spend the day here, brooding like a romantic hero?”

Lucas laughs, pressing his head back against Eliott’s. “ _Our_ guests, and I believe brooding is your speciality, Mr. Demaury.” He folds his hands over Eliott’s, holding him there. “I’m nervous,” he admits softly.

Eliott rests his chin on top of his head. “About what?”

“I don’t know. It feels…” His eyes track Yann and Chloé’s slow ascension up the stairs. Their hands are held together, swinging easily between them as they walk. “It feels like too much sometimes, that I’m able to have all of this. You, I mean,” he strokes a finger along Eliott’s wrist, “and my family, and all of my friends. I never imagined this for myself, ever, and now that I have it, I’m so scared I’m going to lose it.” He laughs flatly, shaking his head at himself. “I’m sorry. That must be the last thing you want to hear right now—”

“Lucas.” Eliott says softly. His hands drift to Lucas’ shoulders, turning him so that they’re facing each other. His hair, which had been combed neatly this morning, is sticking up in small tufts again, no doubt from Eliott’s habit of running his hands through it when he’s nervous. He’s wearing green, a matching jacket and waistcoat that make his skin look golden, his eyes impossibly bright and blue. His smile is warmer than the July sun.

Lucas is struck by the impossibility of it, how one person can be so endlessly beautiful.

“You know,” Eliott says, cupping his cheeks in his palms, tilting his head up so their eyes meet, “when I came to Beaufort that day, the day you told your family about us, I had a moment in your kitchen, when I looked around at all of you and I thought, ‘I wonder if I’ll ever get used to feeling this happy’.”

Lucas’ breath catches.

“I never imagined this for myself, either, Lucas. I never thought I would love someone this much, be _loved_ by someone this much.” He ducks his head down, pressing their foreheads together. “I never thought I would deserve happiness like this, but somehow, I’ve been given it. I’m scared too, Lucas. I’m scared of what might happen, scared of what might not happen, scared of losing you, or of not being what you need.”

“You are _exactly_ what I need,” Lucas whispers. He grips onto Eliott’s forearms. “Just as you are.”

“And you are that for me.” Eliott smiles, nudging their noses together. “I love you, Lucas. There’s nowhere I want to be other than next to you, and as long as I can help it, I won’t leave your side. We don’t know what will happen in the future, but we know that, alright?”

Lucas nods. “I love you so much,” he whispers, and he rises up just as Eliott leans down, their lips meeting in one soft, sweet kiss. “Thank you,” he says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Eliott’s mouth. “I don’t know why I was—”

“There’s no need to explain or apologize,” Eliott says gently. “Not for whatever you’re feeling. I mean, I—” He sighs, twirling a lock of Lucas’ hair between his fingers. “I will have moments far more difficult than this.”

He’s talked about it, a little bit, how his mind can work against him sometimes, how he can fall into moods that he can’t control, and how he can become so angry at himself when that happens.

But he also told Lucas about the doctor he sees in Paris, a woman who believes that illnesses of the mind need to be treated fairly, just like those of the body. They talk, is how he explained to Lucas. They talk once every few weeks, and sometimes Eliott leaves her office feeling heavier than the Earth itself, and sometimes he leaves feeling as light as air.

 _It’s different, all the time_ , he said. _I don’t…I don’t want you to be scared when it changes._

 _I won’t be scared_ , Lucas said, and he’d never meant anything more in life. _Not of you. I want to learn about it, Eliott. I want to understand._

“Eliott.” Lucas folds their hands together, pressing them to his chest. “You don’t have to explain yourself either. You don’t owe that to anyone. And as for those ‘difficult moments’, we’ll deal with them when they come.” He lowers his head, kissing Eliott’s knuckles. “You’re right. We can’t constantly worry about the future, we need to just…live day by day. Minute by minute, if a day seems too much.”

Eliott smiles at this, using Lucas’ hold on his hands to tug him closer, to angle his head down and kiss him. “Minute by minute,” he whispers against his lips. “I like that.”

Lucas steals a kiss back. “Me too.” He wonders if they could forego the beginning of the party, and instead just stay there, in the corner of their bedroom with the most sunlight, kissing and holding each other. He wonders if he could press Eliott down to the windowsill and settle in his lap, stay there for hours. He doubts anyone would miss them. They will likely be preoccupied with the staggering amount of food and alcohol that has been produced for the day.

Eliott bites down on Lucas’ bottom lip, and all of his blood rushes to his head. “In this minute,” Eliott says, voice low and teasing, “I need you to finish getting dressed, and to greet our guests downstairs.”

Lucas shakes his head, pressing onto his toes to chase after another kiss.

“You’re being very rude,” Eliott tells him seriously, and Lucas giggles, loosening his grip on Eliott’s hands so he can hold onto his shoulders instead, bringing him even closer.

“ _Lucas_ ,” Eliott laughs, making a show of trying to break away from him.

“Counter-offer,” Lucas says, poking Eliott’s forehead. “For this next minute, you will kiss me until I see stars, and then in the minute after that, I promise that I will finish getting dressed.”

Eliott frowns as though he’s deeply considering this, but Lucas already knows he’s won. He knows it the moment Eliott’s eyes drop to his lips, his hand skimming across his lower back.

“Promise?” Eliott asks after a moment.

Lucas smiles. “Promise.”

Ten minutes. It takes ten minutes before Lucas makes good on his promise.

  
  


The party is just that—a party. Not a wedding, despite what Alexia says. Such a thing is an impossibility for anyone like Lucas and Eliott.

Except Alexia wouldn’t leave the idea alone, and Mrs. Banet wouldn’t stop writing to Eliott about this _grand ball_ he would have to put on before the end of the season. It was Daphné who had an idea that would appease them both, at least temporarily, and that is how they find themselves here, walking out into the back garden to be greeted by a round applause and cheers from their friends and family.

“There you are, _finally_!” Daphné appears before them, wrapping both of them into a hug and kissing their cheeks. “We were about to send Basile and Arthur to go find you.”

“Probably best you didn’t,” Eliott says dryly, and Lucas bursts into laughter.

Daphné makes a face. “Did not need to know that, thank you very much.”

They’re folded into the throng of people, hugged and kissed on the cheek and clapped good-naturedly on the shoulder, separated somewhere between Mrs. Banet and Yann, falling into different conversations and losing sight of one another in the chaos.

There’s a table laden down with food, another with alcohol, and a string quartet playing on the terrace. Lucas waves when he sees Madeleine there, a violin resting on her shoulder, and a wide, pleased smile on her face.

He’s handed a glass of champagne by Arthur and a crown of flowers by Daphné, a similar one sitting atop her own head.

“What is that?” Lucas asks dubiously, narrowing his eyes at the delicately braided wildflowers.

“Go on.” Daphné holds it out to him. When Lucas continues to hesitate, she rolls her eyes, gesturing towards Eliott, who’s standing across the garden, talking to Sofiane, Imane, and Idriss, all of them laughing loudly. “Eliott’s wearing his already.”

He is wearing one. There’s a thin crown of purple flowers nestled in his hair, and on him, the effect is charmingly ethereal. It makes him look like a spirit that has happened to wander into their party from the ancient forest that surrounds them.

“Fine,” Lucas grumbles, and he puts his own crown of white and yellow flowers on, blushing when he notices Mrs. Banet watching him curiously from behind the drink table. “Does it look alright?” He asks, and immediately regrets the question.

Daphné however, takes it in stride, smiling widely at him, and adjusting the crown so it sits further back on his head.

“Like Oberon himself,” she says proudly.

Alexia and Emma organize a dance halfway through the afternoon, managing to corral enough couples to make it significant and requesting the quartet play a country dance in exchange for a bottle of wine and a plate filled with cakes.

Lucas watches the couples line up onto the strip of grass they’ve deemed to be the ballroom for the day, leaning against a young oak tree and idly nursing a glass of champagne. Imane leads Sofiane onto the grass, holding her skirts up with one hand. Yann and Chloé go as well, and Lucas notices that Chloé has taken off her shoes, while Yann has removed his jacket. He snorts a laugh when he notices Mrs. Banet gape at them, undoubtedly shocked at seeing the ward of the esteemed Lady Sylvie du Fetre-Cravon barefoot in the grass. He sees Herman, smiling jovially and standing across from a beautiful, dark-haired woman who must be his wife. Then he notices Manon, being led into the group of couples by Idriss, both of them smiling down at the ground, her hand resting daintily on his forearm.

 _Interesting_. He’ll have to find Alexia and Emma later and ask them to inform him on whatever is happening there.

Eliott appears next to him, his cheeks pink from the wine, from the sun, or from the exhilarating happiness of the day, Lucas doesn’t know, but he holds his arm out, smiling, and Lucas raises an eyebrow.

“Would you care to dance?” Eliott asks softly.

Lucas slides his hand into his arm without another thought. “Have you been practicing?” Lucas asks as Eliott leads him away from the tree.

They had one dance lesson together, days ago, where Lucas and Daphné alternated between playing the piano and being Eliott’s partner. Eliott had been nervous to begin, stiff and slow and shy, but as they had danced, he had grown more comfortable, letting himself make mistakes and laughing when they happened, learning to follow the music rather than following his feet.

When they had finished, Eliott had sat at the piano bench next to Lucas, pressed a single key, and said, _I think I understand why you like dancing so much._

“Not really,” Eliott says now, smiling sheepishly. “I may not be as fast as the others, but I’d like to dance with you, if you’ll have me.”

“Always,” Lucas says, and they join the other couples, finding a space between Imane and Sofiane, and Manon and Idriss.

Eliott isn’t as fast as the other dancers, and he makes a few awkward turns, misses a few cues, but Lucas has never enjoyed a dance more, slowing his own pace to meet Eliott’s, giggling when their shoulders knock together, blowing Eliott a kiss when they pass by each other.

He dances with Imane after, then with Daphné, then with Chloé, which amuses both of them to no end, and as wonderful as those dances are, as exhilarating as it is just to _move_ , he finds himself searching out Eliott’s face in the gathered spectators, or amongst the other couples, wanting nothing more than to see him, to be close to him.

He wonders if it will ever wane, his constant desire for every part of Eliott—every breath, every movement, every smile. He has a feeling it won’t.

“Stop being so in love,” Emma complains, punching Lucas in the shoulder when she catches him staring at Eliott for the third time. “You’re making _me_ want to be married.”

“We’re not married.” Lucas says, and Emma flaps a hand at him.

“Semantics. You are in every way but legally. This is practically your wedding, after all.”

“It’s not a wedding.”

“Are you sure about that?” Alexia asks, leaning into Emma’s shoulder. “Because Eliott makes such a handsome groom.”

“Enough,” Lucas rolls his eyes to the sky, to the light that has become softer, more golden as the afternoon draws on.

“We’re happy for you, Lucas.” Manon says softly, rubbing a hand between his shoulders blades. “That’s what they’re trying to say.” Her gaze drifts towards Eliott, who’s in the middle of what looks to be a deep conversation with Idriss and Sofiane. “I think you’ll be brilliant together.”

Lucas feels his cheeks flush, and he knows it isn’t a touch from the sun. “Thank you.” He follows her line of sight to the three men, and then he blinks, turning back to her with a sly smile.

“And what about you?” He asks.

Manon frowns at him. “Me? Nothing.”

“No? Did I not see you dancing with Idriss before?”

Alexia gasps.

“That’s right!” Emma mumbles around a mouthful of cake, pointing an accusatory finger at Manon. “I saw you two talking earlier!”

“Set our sights on the dashing naval captain, have we?” Lucas asks, and Manon sends him an unimpressed look that is eerily similar to the ones he’s received from Mrs. Banet.

“We’re friends,” Manon says coolly. “We’ve known each other for a long time.” She pauses, chewing on her bottom lip. “And even so, I don’t know if I’d like to be engaged again,” she says at length. “I think it may take me time to build up trust in someone.”

“Of course,” Alexia says gently, and Lucas nods, the teasing excitement in his heart deflating.

“You never have to get engaged if you don’t want,” Lucas tells her sincerely. “You’ll have Beaufort regardless of that.”

“You’re right,” Manon says with a small smile.,“and I can’t thank Eliott enough for that.” A breeze catches on a stray strand of her hair, curling it around her cheek, and she brushes it away. “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to talk to all of you about. It’s not guaranteed, but I may have found a way to bring a small income into the house.”

“Really?” Emma asks, clearly impressed. “What did you find?”

Manon cups a hand to the side of her neck. “There’s a publisher who I’ve been writing to for more than a year, now. I submitted some essays to them, under a pen name, and the editor has told me he’s interested in publishing a few.”

“ _What_?” Lucas’ mouth drops open in excitement. “Manon, that’s incredible!”

Manon nods, blushing, and Alexia lets out a squeal, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“A writer _and_ a businesswoman.” Alexia says proudly. “Look at her!”

“It’s not a guarantee,” Manon reminds them. “And even if it works, it won’t be enough money to keep the house.”

“But it’s something.” Lucas says. He kisses her on the side of the head, a rush of pride filling his chest with giddy excitement. “Manon, I’m so proud of you.”

“Does Mama know?” Alexia asks.

“She does.” Manon glances over to her, to where she’s telling a story to Herman and his wife, her hands flailing out dramatically as she speaks. Lucas squints towards them, wondering what happens when Herman and his aunt, the two people in the world he knows who can talk the most, meet. Actually, he’s not sure he wants to know.

“She still wants me to get married eventually,” Manon says, “but she was proud enough. Honestly, after Lucas, I think she’s just accepting everything.”

Emma snorts. “That’s what Papa said too.” She pitches her voice comically low. “Emma, my dear, you can tell me whatever you’d like, and I will not bat an eye at it. I am _quite_ at my leisure.”

  
  
  


It’s later when Yann calls for a toast, standing at the centre of the terrace, gathering the attention of the crowd with a flat knife to his champagne flute.

The sun grazes the tops of the trees now, casting golden shadows across the garden, bringing a sweet reprieve from the oppressive heat. The air itself is sweeter in that light, tasting of champagne bubbles and wildflowers, a drunkenness all on its own that’s borne from the summer hours between day and night.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Yann says, his voice ringing clearly over the idle chatter. “May I take a moment of your time, please.”

The garden falls silent.

“We are here today,” Yann begins, “because of two people who are very dear to all of us, two people who, in my opinion, are some of the best that I know in this world.”

Basile raises his glass. “Hear, hear!” He calls, and Arthur shushes him.

“There are many types of love,” Yann continues with a grin. “There is the love felt by families, nurturing and steadfast, often the first love we ever know.”

Someone comes up behind Lucas, touching his arm. He turns, and sees Mrs. Banet, who smiles at him wetly.

“My boy,” she whispers, and she kisses him on the forehead. Lucas leans into it, gripping onto her hand and closing his eyes tightly. “I can see you becoming who you are,” she whispers into his hair, “who you truly are, and I’m so proud of you.”

Lucas sniffs, not bothering to wipe away the tear that trickles down his cheek. “Thank you,” he says softly.

She smiles, and smooths his hair off of his forehead. “Your parents would be proud too.” Her mouth twists wryly. “Poets. They would have loved this.”

Lucas smothers a laugh into his palm.

“There’s the love between friends,” Yann continues, and Basile lets out another cheer. “A love that grows as you grow, changes as you change, but is just as strong, sometimes even more so, then that of a family. It’s a love that we don’t just choose once, but decide to choose every day when we wake up, whenever we write a letter, whenever we attend a ball, or prepare tea, or listen, when someone has a story to tell.”

Imane catches Lucas’ eyes across the crowd, and she winks.

“Then there’s romantic love,” Yann says, and this time it’s Chloé who cheers, raising her wine glass above her head and blowing him a kiss. “That love,” Yann laughs, shaking his head, “can be temperamental. It can be challenging, overwhelming, and heartbreaking. It makes fools out of us all,” a low sound of assent rises up from the crowd, “and it strives to make us better than what we are. But what Lucas and Eliott have,” his gaze finds Lucas easily in the crowd, “is something I haven’t seen before. It’s made a friendship between two people we were all convinced hated each other for _months._ ” There’s a round of laughter that makes Lucas blush. “It’s made a family out of all of us.” He raises his arms to encompass everyone before him. “And it’s made a fool out of our world, because I cannot think of any reason why a love such as theirs shouldn’t be seen as beautiful and important.”

They cheer again, but this one is louder than any of the others, a shocking volume for the amount of people there, a cry that echoes into the trees, bleeds into the burnt-gold sky and ripples across the lake. Lucas is breathing hard, his eyes hot with tears, and he can’t stop smiling, watching as everyone he holds dear cheers for him, for his love, for everything that he was made to believe was shameful.

There’s a break in the bodies, and Lucas can see him, his eyes also wet with tears, his mouth dropped open into an astonished smile.

When he notices Lucas staring at him, his face softens, his eyes overflowing and Lucas’ heart is soaring, a comet across the sky, a wish made by a boy with his head tilted back to the sky, and he mouths to Eliott, _I love you_.

Eliott smiles, crooked and teary and beautiful. _I love you too_.

“Now, I won’t ask them to speak,” Yann says when the noise dies down, and Lucas’ head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “Because I’m sure Lucas would never forgive me for it, but I will ask that we give them a toast.” He raises his glass. “To Eliott and Lucas, and to love.”

Everyone echoes the toast, a sea of flutes rising into the air.

Next to Lucas, Alexia lets out a happy sigh. “I want my wedding to be just like this.”

Lucas sighs. “ _Not_ a wedding.”

  
  
  


The party goes on well into the night—after the quartet leaves, after the food is cleared away, after the sun sets and the fires outside are lit, after Eliott returns with Madeleine to let everyone know that the guest rooms are ready for whenever they wish to retire.

Still, they stay. They talk and they laugh, they break out into song and they dance without music, until the night has comfortably settled in, and only then, their numbers begin to dwindle.

It begins with Mr. and Mrs. Banet, then Mr. and Mrs. Bakhellal bid Lucas goodnight not long after, then Yann leaves as well, supporting a drunk, exhausted Chloé. Manon drifts off, giving Lucas a final hug, and Daphné is right behind her, kissing Eliott on the cheek and giving them a sly smile. Lucas loses sight of Eliott after that, distracted by Alexia and Emma, who pull him into a clumsy, intoxicated hug.

Eventually, it’s just him, Basile and Arthur, and they go inside together, shutting the door to the terrace, walking quietly through the long halls of Arbrenne.

Lucas sees them off at their rooms, then makes the journey back to his. The house is silent as he drifts through it, darkened under the cloak of night, but Lucas knows it better now, is becoming as familiar with Arbrenne as he is with Beaufort, the shadows following him down her halls as comforting to him as those cast by the wych elms onto Beaufort’s front walk.

He’s surprised to find his room empty.

The bed is perfectly made, the only light coming in from the windows, sheets of moonlight that Lucas passes through as he crosses to the dresser, untying the knot of his cravat, unbuttoning his waist coat and laying it over the back of a chair.

He’s down to his shirt and his trousers when the door opens, and Eliott tiptoes inside.

“Where were you?” Lucas asks, glancing at him over his shoulder. Eliott has also lost his jacket and waistcoat, and he’s barefoot, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

“I got us something.” He holds up an unopened bottle of champagne. “Shall we go stargazing?”

Lucas grins, and reaches for the long, oversized coat he keeps in his dresser, a loan that he has yet to return, and probably never will.

  
  
  


Eliott suggests the drawing room balcony, so Lucas can use the telescope, but Lucas shakes his head, directing them towards the front doors.

“The telescope will be fine if I don’t use it for one night,” he laughs.

Eliott goes easily, not questioning it when Lucas stops them near the kitchen, searching for a wool blanket that he knows he left there for this exact purpose.

The fires are still lit outside, casting flickering glows and circles of warmth onto the stairs, and the small terrace that overlooks the lake and walkway.

Lucas lays the blanket down for them, and Eliott pops the champagne.

“I hope no one heard that,” he whispers, and Lucas laughs.

“Please. With the amount of wine that’s been consumed tonight?”

“Hm. Fair point.”

Lucas steals the bottle from Eliott’s grip, taking a long drink from it and swallowing, then pulling Eliott down for a kiss, letting him taste the alcohol on his lips.

“Come on,” he whispers, “I’ll show you the constellations.”

They lie on the blanket together, first with Lucas between Eliott’s legs, his head resting on his chest, then Eliott with his head on Lucas’ lap, then both of them on their backs, their feet at opposite ends of the blanket, their heads meeting in the middle.

“What about that one,” Eliott whispers, pointing up to a small cluster of stars just above them.

Lucas follows the path of his finger. “I think it’s Lyra,” he says.

“Lyra,” Eliott repeats softly.

“For the myth of Orpheus,” Lucas explains. “He was a poet and musician in ancient Greece. When he died, his lyre was thrown into a river, but Zeus had an eagle retrieve it, to place it in the sky.”

“A poet, hm?” Eliott muses, and Lucas laughs, reaching overhead to nudge him in the shoulder.

“Just like you.”

Eliott scoffs inelegantly. “I’m not a poet.”

Lucas rolls onto his stomach, frowning down at him “You’re an artist,” he says softly. He combs his hand through Eliott’s hair. “Everything you do is poetry.”

Eliott smiles, catching Lucas’ hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into Lucas’ skin. Lucas wants to tell him that there’s no reason to thank him, there’s nothing he’s done for Eliott that Eliott hasn’t done for him, but that’s just it, that’s why he understands what he’s saying when he says _thank you_.

_Thank you for loving me like this. Thank you for being real._

Lucas kisses his forehead. “You’re welcome,” he says softly.

Eliott shifts onto his side, pressing himself up from the blanket. His shirt is open low on his chest, the firelight caressing the dips of his collarbones, brushing his skin with pale orange. He smiles, and the light catches on his teeth.

Lucas stares at him, trying to capture the image of him in his mind's eye, so he can see him in his dream just like this: otherworldly, heart-achingly beautiful, and _his_.

Eliott extends a hand to him. “Dance with me.”

Lucas takes it, shivering when their fingers curl together. “Like earlier?”

“No.” Eliott spins him out in a circle, his eyes warm on Lucas when he comes to stop before him. The hollow space between their bodies crackles, like the very air there is composed of lightning. “I want to dance with you the way you danced at Sofiane’s ball. I’ve wanted to ever since that night.”

Lucas cocks his head at him, curious, and when he remembers it, the sweeping turns across the floor, the inescapable pull of Eliott’s eyes in the crowd, his lips part, a small, _oh_ , coming out with a breath.

“The waltz,” Lucas says, and Eliott nods earnestly.

“Can you teach me?”

Lucas smiles, and he takes Eliott’s free hand, placing it on his waist. “I’ll show you how to lead.”

There’s no music, so Lucas hums a waltz beneath his breath, a tune he conjures from some corner of his mind, but he doesn’t realize it’s familiar until Eliott smiles, stumbling a little in their sweeping steps.

“I remember when you played this for Lady Sylvie.”

That’s how Lucas knows it. A slow, delicate waltz, better reserved for a moonlit terrace than a candlelit ballroom.

“That feels like such a long time ago, now,” Lucas murmurs, guiding Eliott into another careful turn. “I cannot believe how utterly wrong I was about you back then.”

“I understand it,” Eliott says. He glances down at his feet, watching them as they move _one, two, three, one, two, three,_ across the stone. “I did nothing to contradict your first impression of me.”

It’s true, and Lucas knows that Eliott holds no ill will against him, and that, perhaps, that initial misunderstanding is the only reason they are able to find themselves there, dancing together under the stars, and he sighs, ducking his head into Eliott’s shoulder.

“What was your first impression of me?”

Eliott laughs, his chest rumbling under Lucas’ cheek. “I thought you were beautiful,” he says easily. “With the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Lucas preens at this, pulling away so Eliott can see his smile.

“I was impressed by how clever you were,” Eliott continues, changing direction when they near the edge of the stairs. “I think I loved you from the very first moment I spoke with you, and that is what caused me to behave like an unmitigated ass.”

Lucas stops, his grasp on Eliott’s hand holding him back, breaking the flow of their lazy, clumsy waltz. Eliott turns to him, his face carefully neutral.

“Did you—” Lucas asks, and his voice comes out high and strained. He clears his throat. “Did you mean that?”

After a moment, a moment where Lucas’ heart catapults itself into the sky, Eliott nods.

“Yes.”

Lucas throws himself at him.

Eliott yelps, catching him around the middle, the force of his weight sending them drifting in a slow circle.

“You’re so _ridiculous_ ,” Lucas mutters, burying his face in Eliott’s neck. “ _Fuck_. I love you. I love you so much.”

Eliott lowers him back to the ground. “I love you.” He cups Lucas’ face in his hands. “Lucas.” His thumbs stroke across the skin under his eyes. “Darling.”

Lucas wraps his arms around his waist, his hands fisting in his shirt. “I need you to kiss me,” he says, and Eliott does, lowering his head, pressing their lips together gently.

Lucas makes a muffled, pleading sound against his lips, tilting his head in Eliott’s hands to deepen it. Eliott sighs in response, his hands slipping away from Lucas cheeks to his neck, then drifting to his back, holding him close around his shoulders.

Their mouths part together, wet lips and warm gasping breaths, tightening their holds on each other as though they could never be close enough. Lucas slides his hands under Eliott’s shirt, splaying his hands across the warm skin of his back, and it feels heavenly, but it’s still not enough. Lucas thinks he could taste Eliott’s soul, he could carve a hole for himself in Eliott’s heart, and it still wouldn’t be enough. _I long for you even when I can feel you._

He doesn’t realize he’s said that aloud, a whisper kissed into Eliott’s jaw, until Eliott pulls away, smoothing his hands over Lucas’ hair and saying softly, “I know, darling. I know.”

Lucas exhales against his chin. “Do you think it will always be like this?”

“I think so.”

“It’s exhausting.” Lucas groans, and Eliott laughs, returning his arms to Lucas’ shoulders and swaying them on the spot, an almost-dance that’s not really a dance at all, just moving together, breathing together, occasionally coming together for a kiss.

“I like this,” Eliott says, turning them in a slow circle. “I wish we could dance like this.”

“This isn’t dancing.”

“Yes it is,” Eliott argues, biting at the shell of Lucas’ ear, laughing when he yelps. “You know what I mean. I wish we could dance like this around other people. All the time.”

The thought is an achingly melancholic one, a dream of a world that Lucas can’t conceive of. But Eliott wishes for it, and so Lucas wants to wish for it too. “Maybe we will, one day,” he says.

Eliott presses their foreheads together. “Maybe.”

They sway like that, silently, under the starry sky, just existing, living, savouring the wonder of having the choice to be anything, and deciding to be together.

Then, Lucas says, “You called me ‘darling’.”

“Mhm.” Eliott murmurs.

“Can you call me something else?”

Eliott pulls back with a frown, as though he’s genuinely offended by this. “What’s wrong with ‘darling’?”

Lucas fakes a shudder. “It’s what my aunt calls me. It’s what Alexia calls the ribbons in the _shop_.”

Eliott bursts into laughter, his eyes crinkling into those little half-moons that Lucas wants to kiss. “Fine. What should I call you then? Just Lucas?”

“Well, _no._ ” Lucas rolls his eyes. “Not just my name.”

“Sweetheart, then.”

“Eh.”

“King of my heart?”

Lucas purses his lips together. “I would accept _my king_.”

Eliott smiles down at him, openly fond, and, unable to think of anything else to do when faced with that expression, Lucas wrinkles his nose at him.

Eliott kisses the bridge of it. “And what will you call me?”

Lucas hums, screwing his face up in concentration. “Mr. Demaury.”

“Will that be,” Eliott lowers his voice, raising his eyebrows, “reserved for the bedroom?”

Lucas can’t help the barking laugh he lets out at that. “You're _obscene_.”

Eliott grins, pleased with himself. “You can just call me Eliott, if you like. I’m happy with that.”

Lucas knows he would. He knows Eliott would accept any name he wants to give him, because that is who Eliott is, constantly giving to Lucas without even realizing it.

It’s the reason why he soberly shakes his head, and says, “No.”

Eliott blinks. “No?”

“No.” Lucas kisses his cheek, whispers into his ear. “Sunshine.”

Eliott giggles. “My muse,” he says teasingly.

Lucas kisses the tip of his nose. “Honey.”

“Flower.”

A kiss to Eliott’s other cheek. “My love.”

Eliott exhales, nudging their foreheads together. “My star.”

They kiss, and together they form a perfect constellation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, we're really done 🌟
> 
> thank you for coming along with me!


	6. extras, tumblr asks, and headcanons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it was recommended to me by the lovely raquel to share the headcanons i've been sharing on tumblr here, so they don't get lost (as things usually do on tumblr)
> 
> these are some short, drabbl-y little bits written in response to asks that i'll update as i work through my inbox - i hope you find them interesting! 🧡

_**For anon, who asked: how did lucas' move to arbrenne go? like between chap 4 and the epilogue? did eliott have a stroke when he saw lucas naked for the first time? did lucas really go to uni, if so how did they manage?** _

The move goes exactly how you would expect it to go: Lucas doesn’t have much to take with him, doesn’t even need much help, but of course his entire family insists on joining him, and then imane decides to come along as well (to supervise), and so Sofiane must come too, and what starts as a small moving party turns into Lucas’ family staying with them for an entire week. It’s nice for both of them, because Lucas loves his family and he wants to see them whenever he can, especially now that he’ll be further away, and Eliott loves seeing his house full of people, loves being a part of such a boisterous and loving family, but it’s also very, very frustrating for both of them, because having Lucas’ very loud, very nosy family staying with them means that he and Eliott can’t find a moment to be alone together.

Finally, Lucas’ family, Imane and Sofiane all return to Allier, and Lucas thinks that now, with nothing else in their way, he and Eliott can finally try to be together, properly. Only, the real difficulty comes that night, when Lucas moves his things into Eliott’s room, unprompted. Eliott is visibly thrown by this, because he wanted to give Lucas the choice to have his own room, and didn’t want to put pressure on him, and of course Lucas interprets this as _him_ putting pressure on _E_ _liott_ , so he immediately backtracks, opting instead to stay in his own room for the night.

Hours pass without either of them being able to sleep. The night is too long, too cold, and too quiet, and eventually Lucas gives up, throwing on a robe and tiptoeing into the hallway, headed directly for Eliott’s room. Except, he never makes it, because halfway down the hall he runs into Eliott himself, who was on his way to Lucas’ room. They laugh at themselves, they make a promise to try and communicate about things like this, and then they pull the covers off of their own beds, and make a nest of blankets right there in the hallway. Madeleine finds them asleep like that the next morning.

(After that, they move into Eliott’s room, and those earliest nights they spend together are full of embarrassment, misunderstandings, nerves, and love. So much love).

Lucas enrolls in university, and travels to Paris for his lectures, staying with Basile and Arthur a few nights a week when the trip back home is too long to justify. They miss each other those days, Eliott and Lucas, but they always try to make up for it when they see each other again.

So, I think they’re managing just fine.

_**For Raquel, who asked for any headcanons I was willing to share.** _

Lucas has the telescope to use now, but he still has a habit of going outside to stargaze, especially when he can’t sleep. Eliott goes with him some nights, and they’ll bring out the blankets and fall asleep together before dawn, but other nights Lucas will go on his own, and he’s fine with that, because as much as he likes being around Eliott, he still appreciates his time alone, so he goes out onto the terrace, watches the stars, fills in more pages in his notebook and sometimes, he thinks about how much his life has changed from six months ago, a year ago, and he wishes there was a way he could go back, to tell the Lucas of the past to wait, just to wait a little bit longer, because one day, he’s going to meet someone who will love him the way he’s always dreamed of, and understand him in a way he never thought possible. (And for Lucas, the best part of those nights alone are when he returns to their bedroom, and Eliott is there, waking up when the door opens to softly as him, “How was it?” and Lucas will always answer, “Perfect.”)

Eliott does, eventually, throw a ball. Or rather, Daphné throws a ball and asks Eliott to host it with her. It’s held in September, when the light is golden and the air begins to cool, and guests from all over France flock to Arbrenne, thrilled with being able to attend the first ball this famed house has held in over sixty years - and it doesn’t disappoint. The décor is impeccable, the food is exquisite, and nearly every dance the band plays is a waltz.

Imane and Sofiane open a school in Allier that specializes in education of the sciences for young women from all walks of life. They dedicate the school to Imane’s parents.

Lucas and Daphné actually don’t play many duets together, because whenever they try, they tend to get too competitive. (During one particularly thrilling Mozart duet, Lucas received a stray elbow to the eye.)

After making contact with a new journal being produced out of Paris by a group of young women, Manon does begin to have her essays published. And she does it under her own name.

Lucas does allow Eliott to call him “my star,” but only when they’re alone, and only when Eliott is completely, incandescently happy.

_**For anon, who asked: also, does lucas get to use that telescope, do they ever talk about how/when eliott bought it for example?** _

Lucas holds back from using the telescope until his family leaves, but once they’re gone, he asks for Eliott’s help to move the telescope onto the balcony, and proceeds to spend every other night out there, wearing Eliott’s wool coat, with his notebook open next to a burning candle.

Eliott doesn’t mind going to sleep alone. Usually, when the hours start to grow late, and Lucas shows no sign of wishing to stop stargazing anytime soon, Eliott will disappear down to the kitchen, and return with a pot of tea and a plate of food for Lucas. He’ll leave them by his feet, kiss him on the forehead, and tells him that he’ll see him in the morning.

There are a few nights where Eliott brings out a second teacup, and he’ll draw by candlelight while Lucas peers into the telescope, muttering to himself as he adjusts it, adding and crossing out lines in his notebook.

They rarely talk in moments like this, focused on their own tasks and happy just to enjoy the other’s presence, so it surprises Eliott one night, a week after the Banet’s departure, when Lucas suddenly says, “Can I ask you something?”

When Eliott nods, he asks, “How long have you had this for?”

He doesn’t need to specify what _this_ is, and Eliott blushes, smiling into his palm because the truth of it is, he had the idea to buy a telescope during his first stay in Allier, when he was sitting at the writing desk in Sofiane’s drawing room, listening intently to the conversation Sofiane was having with Lucas. When he heard how excited Lucas was about the telescope, and saw the smile on his face when Sofiane said he could visit any time to use it, he thought, _What I wouldn’t do to make him smile like that_.

So, perhaps the next time Eliott travelled to Paris for business, he made inquiries about where one could purchase a telescope. And perhaps, after that, he had to return to Arbrenne to bring something home, something that was brought up the the drawing room and then left there, untouched for months and months, until one night, when Eliott found himself standing in the doorway, utterly taken by the way the moonlight touched the ends of Lucas’ hair and kissed his cheekbones when he said, _You don’t mind?_

He tells Lucas this, busying himself with his sketch, running over the same black line until it’s thick and deep, nearly tearing through the page. He’s embarrassed, and it’s an embarrassment coupled with a worry that he’s felt before, as much as he tells himself that it’s not probably: of himself being too much for Lucas, his love too intense, too absolute.

But, when he chances a brief glance up, he sees Lucas, staring at Eliott with his hands limply at his side, his mouth open.

“For me.” Lucas says. “You did that for me, when we barely knew each other.”

“I know it’s a lot,” he starts, but Lucas cuts him off, and he sounds awed.

“No one has ever done anything like that for me before.”

“I told you,” Eliott says softly, “I loved you the moment I first spoke to you.”

“I know you said that, but...” Lucas starts to giggle, and Eliott is helpless but to smile in response, his own laughter building up in his chest. “I thought you were just being romantic, but that?”

Lucas takes two strides across the balcony and he’s taking Eliott’s sketches gently from his hands and setting them down, and he’s lowering himself into Eliott’s lap, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Eliott holds him around his back, stroking his fingers down his spine. In the barely-there light of the candle, Lucas’ eyes are an endless midnight sea.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Lucas says, “and honestly, I’m not even sure I deserve you now, but thank you.” He presses their foreheads together. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Eliott says hoarsely, and he wants to tell Lucas that they’re both lucky, that they deserve each other, but he also understands it, the feeling of being so completely overwhelmed by happiness that you feel as though it’s impossible it’s happening to you, and so he just says, “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll have to get you something even better as a wedding present.”

Eliott bursts into laughter. “It’s not a competition, Lucas.”

Lucas shifts on his lap. “Of course not.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “But I’ll still win.”

Weeks later, Eliott returns home from a trip to the south, and, when greeted by an empty house, goes searching for Lucas, Daphné, or Madeleine. He doesn’t find them, but he finds something else: at the very centre of the drawing room, in front of the doors to the balcony, is an artist’s easel, with a blank canvas and a new block or charcoal propped up against it. Well, nearly blank.

As Eliott steps closer, he sees that someone has written something across the canvas in ink, in a familiar rushed script.

_We’ll call it a draw_ , it says.

And underneath that, _I love you_.

_**For anon, who asked what their time in the bedroom is like.** _

They’re both so inexperienced, is the thing. And living in a time such as theirs, they have so little to reference for what passion between men really means (aside from what they make it). Not to say they aren’t thinking about it. Because they really, really are. And they talk about it, or at least they try to. It’s a conversation that happens in fits and starts, with both of them regularly getting too embarrassed to carry on, and eventually, Eliott decides to do something about that, and seeks out some particularly scandalous Greek and French literature for help.

They read the literature together, and it’s something about the phrasing of it, something about the voice Lucas takes on when he reads, or the faces Eliott makes, and before they make it through five pages, they’re both laughing uncontrollably.

“We can try things,” Lucas says when their laughter has quieted to soft giggles. “We can even try _this_ , but what I really want is to just...” He shrugs, and Eliott is enamoured with the way his cheeks turn red under the glow of the fireplace. “I just want to be close to you.”

Eliott presses a kiss to Lucas’ clothed shoulder. “I want that too.”

“I want to touch you.”

Eliott grazes his fingers along the open collar of Lucas’ shirt. “Yes, please.”

He presses a kiss to Lucas’ neck, and Lucas sighs, arching into it.

The book is dropped to the floor, and isn’t picked up again until the next morning.

**_For anon, who asked about Eliott's thought process as he came to terms with his feelings for Lucas, leading up to his first confession._ **

Well, the thing is, he wasn’t lying when he told Lucas that he fought with himself in order to come to terms with his feelings.

He has known for years that there is something within him, _something_ that makes him look at men and women with equal appraisal, but it didn’t have a name, this something. It didn’t have a tangible weight to it, and that made it easy to be flippant about it. He mentioned it to Sofiane once, when they were on a trip to Italy together, just a small, _men are beautiful too, aren’t they_?

He mentioned it to Daphné one afternoon, when they read out in the garden together, _I do not think gender matters so much, do you_?

He mentions it, and then he lets it go. He doesn’t easily connect with people, and has yet to find anyone who seems eager to understand him, so it’s not something that he thinks he needs to worry about. The idea of marriage, and a genuine relationship, those are vague concepts only.

But then, he goes to ball, and he sees Lucas Lallemant.

And he thinks, _oh_.

He sees Lucas Lallemant, and he wants to talk to him. He wants to be close to him. He speaks to Lucas Lallemant, hears his soft, low voice, and he wants to hear him talk forever, wants to ask him to dance even though he doesn’t know how, and he wants to kiss him. Oh _God_ , he wants to kiss him.

It’s as close to love at first sight that Eliott has ever known, and he panics. The force of his attraction unnerves him, and causes him to behave like complete idiot for the rest of the night. His behaviour even shocks himself, and he knows Sofiane will ask him later, but he can’t stop brushing off any mention of Lucas Lallemant. He fears if he doesn’t, then he’ll give himself away entirely.

He’s sure that Lucas does not feel the same way. He’s protecting himself from breaking his own heart by dismissing Lucas entirely. He can put him from his mind, and return to his life as he knows it.

Except, he keeps appearing. Lucas. He show up one day to see Imane when she’s unwell, and he looks like wild thing come from the woods: hair mussed, shirt undone, sweat dripping down his neck.

Eliott injures his knee from standing too quickly from the table, but the pain is welcome, because it’s a distraction from his own mind, which seems to be focused on one intrusive, wildly inappropriate thought only: _I want to know what his sweat tastes like_.

He hastens away, after lunch, tries to hide himself away from Lucas until he leaves, but Sofiane, good-natured as always, brings Lucas into the drawing room to wait with them for dinner, and it’s then, when Eliott is pretending not to watch Lucas wander about the bookshelves, that Eliott begins to wonder.

He sees Lucas smile, catches a wry grin and a teasing word, meets his eyes and sees, briefly, a flash of understanding there, and he wonders.

_Does he see me the way I see him?_

It’s a thought that sets Eliott alight from the inside out, and it doesn’t leave his head for months.

He begins to yearn, in a way he never has before.

He buys a telescope in Paris, with no idea of what to do with it. He touches Lucas’ hand briefly, steadies him with another touch to the small of his back, and he has to lie down for an entire hour afterwards. He sees Lucas dance with Chloé, and a deep, dark jealousy courses through him at the sight of their hands linked together.

He and Lucas argue that night, and he doesn’t understand when their conversation became an argument, but he wants to pull back all of his words from their air and swallow them back when he watches Lucas walk away. He wants to coax him back into the night, wants to touch his hand again, and he wants to say, _please._

He vows to do better next time.

But the next time is under the shrewd gaze of Lady Sylvie. He wanders over to where Lucas is playing the piano, tries not to stare too long at his hands, or the way the lights plays off of the curve of his neck, and he tries to speak to him.

He says, “I remember this dance,” but what he really means is, _I remember you, the way you_ _danced_.

He says, “I’m not particularly skilled at that.”

Lucas asks, “At what? Talking or dancing?”

He says, “At either,” and he thinks, _please. Please understand me_.

Eliott doesn’t get to speak to him any more, and even if he could he has no idea what he would say. Nothing that his aunt could hear. If she knew that Eliott was pursuing Lucas Lallemant, he’s sure her wrath would be a force akin to a hurricane.

It’s not himself he’s worried about, when it comes to her. There’s only so much she could do to him. It’s Lucas. He doesn’t know what she would do to him if she were to find out.

And it’s that thought that makes him hesitate when they leave, standing in the doorway, his entire body locked up in indecision.

Everything he wants with Lucas, everything he dreams of: it will have to stay a secret.

It’s cruelly unfair. To both of them.

It keeps Eliott up all night, causes him to pace across his room, to draft two letters and then throw them into the fireplace. He’s never felt like this before, not even in his highest moods. He feels…wild. He feels like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, longing for the embrace of the waves below. A sea that is the exact colour of Lucas Lallemant’s eyes.

Eliott clutched his pillow to his chest, turns in a circle, and whispers into the dark, “I love him.” He laughs and buries his face into the pillow. “Lucas Lallemant,” he says, voice heavily muffled, “I’m in love with you.”

And that’s all there is, isn’t there?

Eliott is in love. Desperately so.

There’s nothing else to do, but find go to Lucas, and tell him.

He dons his coat and he slips quietly through the kitchen door, and his last thought before he’s swallowed up by the storm is, _please_.

_Please let him feel the same way_.

**_For anon, who asked about Eliott's perspective on the moments after Lucas rejected him, and when he found him in the garden looking at the stars._ **

Eliott left his aunt's house filled with hope, more than he had dared to let himself have before, and when he ran into Lucas, in the middle of a thunderstorm, on the edge of his aunt's property, Eliott thought, _Surely this is fate_ , and he was so nervously and so happy that he felt delirious with it.

But it doesn’t take long before he realizes he was wrong. His confession is met with scorn, his pleadings met with vitriol, and when Lucas begins to lay out every grievance he has with Eliott, everything he blames him for, Eliott’s heart shatters, because it’s at once so clear, how much Lucas hates him.

And there’s Eliott, once a fool, always a fool, trying to pick up the shards of his heart, cutting clumsy hands on their sharp corners, and thinking, _How is it possible I got this so wrong?_

The worst part of it all is that, even then, even when Eliott is bleeding out hopelessness and Lucas is staring him down with contempt, Eliott is taken in by the fierceness he sees in Lucas’ eyes, the stubborn curve to his mouth, and Eliott wants to kiss him. Somehow, still, he wants to hold him, wants to brush away the rainwater on his cheeks with his fingers, and he wants to say, _Please listen to me. You’re wrong about me, Lucas, I promise._

He can’t say these things, though. Lucas is a storm furious enough to rival the one raging overhead, and Eliott doesn’t think he can do this much longer, stand before him and listen as Lucas cuts his character down to nothing. He thinks he might cry, and he doesn’t want Lucas to see that, so he gives some flat pleasantry in parting and he flees.

He doesn’t stop walking until he makes it back to Montrose, doesn’t let himself break until he’s back inside of his room, and then he presses his back into the door and slides to the ground, burying his face in his hands, his entire body trembling.

He doesn’t move for hours.

When he does, it’s to bathe, to change into something dry, and to sit at his desk, staring blankly out of the window.

The more he thinks about it, the heavier his soul feels.

Lucas is wrong about him, but has Eliott ever actually given him evidence to the contrary? Eliott thought he was slowly revealing pieces of himself for Lucas to see, but then he thinks of how cold he was to him at their first meeting, and how awkward he was at every subsequent meeting, and his head drops down to his desk with a _thud_.

“Fuck,” he says aloud, shutting his eyes tightly.

Perhaps he made a mistake with separating Sofiane and Miss Bakhellal.

Eliott never wanted to hurt Miss Bakhellal. He _likes_ her. He thinks she’s clever, and funny, but he also really thought she was indifferent. He thought Sofiane was on a path to getting his heartbroken yet again, but it never occurred to him that Miss Bakhellal was also on that path.

He never thought she felt the same. But Lucas would know far better than Eliott would, wouldn’t he?

His face burns with regret. _What have I done?_

He would be angry with himself too, if he were Lucas.

He has to explain it to him.

In a rush of movement, he pulls out a spare piece of paper, reaches for his ink pot, but then he stops, hand hovering in the air.

If he wants to try and have Lucas understand, if he really wants to explain himself, then Eliott will have to tell him everything.

_Everything_. _About Charles, about Daphné, and about me_.

The thought is terrifying.

And yet, there’s something about it that’s also strangely liberating. Eliott can be honest, truly honest, with Lucas, and then that will be it. The truth will be out, and Lucas can do with it what he will, but no matter what, Eliott won’t have to hide.

He likes the idea of Lucas knowing him.

He may not ever love him, Eliott can see that now. It’s a truth that hurts to acknowledge, a throbbing pain in his chest, at his temples, but the blow of it is softened by the simple possibility of Lucas being able to know him, as he really is.

So, he writes. He writes until he has to find another page. He writes until the sun has sun and the sky becomes a murky canvas of violet and indigo. He writes until he can see the stars, just a little, and it makes him smile because it makes him think of Lucas: of all the times Eliott has seen him tilt his head back to watch the stars, of how he always seems to be able to breathe but easier when he does.

The sweetness of the memory of him makes Eliott write one final line:

_I have a feeling that, if I find you, you will be looking at the stars._

And then, because it’s true, he signs it:

_Yours,_

_Eliott Demaury_

He sneaks out of the house again, leaving by the kitchen so he can find some food on the way, and he tucks the letter into his coat pocket, when he steps out into the night that it’s still there, then checking again when he catches sight of Chloé’s home.

It is, in all likeliness, a terrible idea to go looking for Lucas so soon after their argument. Eliott isn’t even sure Lucas will read the letter, but he wants him to, desperately. He’s not expecting for Lucas to suddenly change his mind and accept Eliott’s proposal. All he wants is to tell Lucas everything he can, to lay out himself and his life as plainly as possible, and to leave the truth, as he knows it, in Lucas’s hands. He has faith it will be kept safe there.

_Here I am_ , is what his letter really says. _I have made mistakes. I have my own struggles, my own past, and my own shame. I understand you more than you know. I only hope you can understand me as well._

When he sees Lucas in the garden at the back of house, wrapped in a blanket and gazing at the stars, he feels himself smile, just a little.

The moonlight gently kisses Lucas’ skin, lighting him like the surface of a still lake, and even now, Eliott is stunned by the sight of him, by how utterly beautiful he is.

“How did I know I would find you here?” He asks softly. Lucas doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at him, and Eliott knows that he can’t push Lucas, that he’s well within his right to never speak to Eliott again, so he only sighs, and leaves the letter on a stone bench at the edge of the garden.

“I have written this,” he says, “for you. Please read it.” He swallows, and he can feel his throat closing. All he manages to say is another choked, “Please,” and then he leaves, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and striding across the damp grass

He lets himself look back once, just before he disappears into the tree line, but Lucas is already gone, and the house is dark.

Eliott tilts his head back towards the stars, eyes dancing across constellations he can’t name, and he sends a thought there, to any celestial body that may be listening in on the tragic follies of humans: _I hope he reads it_.

The stars have nothing to tell him, but he lingers there still, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

Eliott wanted to be entirely honest with Lucas in that letter, and he was, where it mattered, and he also wasn’t, in another place where it mattered.

Everything Eliott wrote about Sofiane, Miss Bakhellal, Daphné, and Charles was true. Everything he wrote about his father and himself was true. He wrote, _I don’t believe that either of us should ever be ashamed_ , and it was true.

But when Eliott wrote, _I hope soon, those feelings will not weigh so heavily in my heart,_ that was a lie.

Eliott can hope you have his feels change like the face of a waning moon, but he knows, deep within himself, that it won’t happen.

Because when he saw Lucas’ moonlit face, all he could think was, _I love you. Still. Now. And likely, forever_.

That’s a truth that Eliott doesn’t need to tell.

**_For anon, who asked about Eliott's thoughts when Lucas showed up at Arbrenne, and why Eliott cried when Lucas told him that he loved him for the first time._ **

Eliott had no idea whether Lucas read his letter or not, and it weighed on him, nearly as much as the thought that Eliott may very well never see him again weighed on him.

He hates the possibility that the letter will remain unopened, and that Lucas will forever hold this impression of Eliott in his mind that is sour and warped - an impression that was cultivated on Charles’ persuasive nature and Eliott’s own foolishness.

He tries to make peace with it, that the letter was his last chance to explain himself to Lucas, and as the days pass: spring slipping into summer, fading to fall, hardening to winter, and returning to first blossom of spring once again, Eliott tries to accept that Lucas will now exist only as a memory to him. A distant dream just out of his reach, a star that he can only ever admire from the surface of the Earth.

He doesn’t have faith in magic and fate like he used to as a child. He’s not hoping for any divine intervention that will point their twisting paths back together, but then.

There’s a warm, sunny day when Eliott returns home early from his trip to Paris, when he surprises Daphné at her piano, and in the midst of spinning them both in a circles, both of them laughing, he hears a faint gasp, notices a flash of brilliant blue in the gap of the open door.

And there, Eliott is wondering if he needs to start believing in magic and fate and all manner of things unexplainable again, because he knows those eyes.

Eliott would know those eyes anywhere.

His chase after Lucas is a bit ridiculous, his subsequent awkwardness embarrassing, but he cannot be blamed for his own lack of decorum, not when he’s standing before Lucas on the steps, watching the way the sunlight kisses his skin.

He’s here. He’s at Eliott’s home.

_What are you doing here?_ Eliott wants to ask. _Did I conjure you from a thought? From a dream?_

_Did you read it?_

Lucas gives a hasty explanation - he’s travelling with friends around Loire, admiring the castles, and they came for a tour, as Madeleine claimed the house was open for the public.

Eliott takes all of this in stride. He knows that people are curious about Arbrenne, knows that Madeleine is always eager to show off the house she works so tirelessly to run, and knows that, often when he’s away, she will show these people around, taking them through the sculpture gallery, the garden, the formal dining room.

But that is people. People who Eliott may never meet, who wander the halls his family built, admiring the architecture. People. Not him. Not _Lucas_.

Lucas, who is shy with Eliott, in a way that feels curiously incongruous to the image of him Eliott has in his mind: brash and loud, with a tongue like a whip. This Lucas stares everywhere except at Eliott, while Eliott can stare at little except him. This Lucas has his hands clasped neatly in front of himself. He gives stilted and abrupt answers, and it worries Eliott. It makes him think he’s making Lucas uncomfortable.

_Maybe he didn’t read it._

_Or maybe he did read it, and now he doesn’t want to be near you._

Except he is there. _Here_. Right in front of Eliott, as mesmerizing as he’s ever been, and Eliott must not have a sliver of self-preservation left because he’s asking Lucas to stay, trying to invite him for tea, trying to do anything to keep him there, to stop him from disappearing on the spring wind like a secret uttered between lovers.

The fragility of Eliott’s invitation, however, is unnecessary. Because Lucas’ friends arrive, and with them, an instant feeling of camaraderie Eliott did not expect.

Basile Savary and Arthur Broussard. They have an infectious energy about them, an unselfconsciousness that Eliott is a bit envious of. They’re loud and they seem - or at least Mr. Savary does - to speak without considering their words, and Eliott is fond of them immediately.

Eliott invites them all for dinner, because the notion of their dining room being filled with laughter all night is a pleasant one, and because Eliott is sure the Daphné will be endlessly amused by all three of them together.

It’s only then, once Mr. Savary and Mr. Broussard have accepted as Lucas watches on with an indiscernible expression, that Eliott realizes he chased after Lucas without re-buttoning his shirt, and it is with as much dignity as possible that Eliott scurries away from them, clumsy fingers fumbling against the thick material.

Daphné, of course, teases him mercilessly for it.

“Look at the state of you,” she says with a laugh, tying up Eliott’s cravat for him while Eliott sits on the arm of the sofa, pouting. “Running after him with your neck all bare.” She shakes her head. “It’s a basic level of seduction, but it is still seduction, and for that I commend you.”

“I’m not trying to _seduce_ him,” Eliott complains, ignoring it when Daphné lets out another laugh. “I’m trying to be his friend.”

Daphné pauses, looking up to meet Eliott’s eyes. There’s a soft turn to her mouth, a caring, gentle expression, that makes her look just like their mother. “But you love him, don’t you?”

Eliott sighs, lowering his eyes to his knees. “Yes.”

“So, you want to be more than his friend.” She says it as if it’s the simplest thing in the entire world. As if it could be as simple as Eliott says, _Lucas_ , _I want to be everything to you_. As if he hasn’t already tried that.

“I don’t think he wants that from me,” Eliott says quietly, and Daphné nudges him under his chin, forcing him to look up and meet her eyes.

“Then he’s a fool.”

“But-”

Daphné shakes her head. “You’re the best person I know in this world, Eliott. And if he can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you.” The conviction in her voice, is strong, sure, and it’s almost enough to make Eliott believe her words as if they’re his own, the way Dr. Daucet tells him to speak to himself whenever he falls into a cavern of self-doubt.

_I am deserving of good things._

_I am deserving of happiness._

_I am deserving of love._

Sometimes, when he says these things out loud, he almost believes them too.

“You’re right,” he tells Daphné and she grins, smacking a wet kiss to his cheek and running a hand through his hair.

“Now,” she says seriously, “we have to make you look presentable.” She hums, considering. “Presentable, but in a rogue-ish sort of way.”

“Daphy,” Eliott says, just as seriously. “I don’t think I know what that means.”

They eat dinner together, all of them, including a man named Herman, who has the most wonderfully entertaining stories Eliott has ever heard. They eat together, and it’s perfect, the way they are all able to come together. It’s perfect, because Eliott sits across from Lucas the entire meal, and he gets to watch as Lucas’ shyness morph into something else: something that’s still sweet, but a bit bolder, shades of the Lucas that Eliott has seen in ballrooms: quick and clever and so funny that Eliott nearly snorts wine into his nose from laughing.

He glances up, hoping no one saw him, except there’s Lucas, smiling at him from across the table as though there’s a private joke they’re both in on.

(And well, Eliott supposes there is.)

The weight of Lucas’ gaze is utterly intoxicating.

Eliott feels himself melt under it like sugar under his tongue.

Daphné won’t stop nudging her knee against his under the table, but Eliott barely notices. He’s consumed by a thought. Not even a thought, but a word. One word that encompasses an entire ocean of meaning.

Eliott feels Lucas’ gaze on himself and the word comes, arresting and gorgeous and hopeful: _maybe_.

Now, as far as Eliott feelings in the field scene, I’ve touched on that a little bit before.

But the best way I can explain it is like this:

Something happens, and it’s something you’ve been dreaming of for so long that it feels like memory as it unfolds in front of you, and it takes a moment for you to realize that no, this is real. This is not me hoping, this is something happening to me right now. And it’s like, the happiness inside of you is too much to contain. Your heart is a comet. Your soul is a sunrise. Your hands are the wings of a morning dove, but at the same time, you are so wholly, utterly yourself. You are at home in confines of yourself, infinite in your limitations. You are loved. And you love. And you are _loved_.

That is what Eliott feels, standing in that dew-fresh field as Lucas confesses to him.

That’s why he cries. 

**_For anon, who asked what Eliott was thinking during the telescope scene._ **

It goes like this:

They finish dinner, and decide to play cards.

Eliott doesn’t know where the suggestion comes from, somewhere between Mr. Broussard and Mr. Leplein’s conversation about horribly lost bets, and Daphné’s insistence that she had never lost a hand of cards in her life (which is true), but he’s grateful for the enthusiasm with which the idea is received, because it means that they stay.

It means that Lucas stays. Just a little longer.

Eliott can feel minutes falling from the gaps between his fingers like water, an inevitable end to the storybook night where every smile was shy and every glance was a secret between two people.

Eliott remembers the story only vaguely. One by Perrault, with a young woman who ventured out of her cruel household with the help of magic to attend a ball. Then, the chiming of midnight, and it all goes away. A dress that turns to tatters. A carriage that turns to a vegetable.

It’s far from midnight still, but Eliott fancies himself as the young woman counting down the minutes at her ball. Or maybe he’s the carriage.

He wants to follow them into the drawing room, because he wants to see their faces when Daphné holds her promise to win back any money she lays down, and because he wants to get a spot at the card table where he can be across from Lucas again, and watch the way candlelight caresses his skin.

But he stays behind to help clean from dinner, because the dishes are heavy and the staff must be tired, and because that’s what he always does, whenever they finish a meal. He waves off Daphné with their guests and tries in vain to ignore her when she points at Lucas’ turned back and mouths at Eliott, _I like him_.

Eliott makes a face at her, picking up another plate.

_How could you not?_

Clearing the table is usually a quick process, quicker tonight for how distracted Eliott is throughout, thinking of Mr. Savary’s obvious and alarming admiration for Daphné, Mr. Broussard's keen eyes that seemed to catch every heartfelt look Eliott sent to Lucas that night, and of Lucas himself, and the sweet way he smiled at Eliott over his glass of wine.

It’s likely that Eliott was too obvious in his longing, his heart a phantom weight in his palm, and that was what Mr. Broussard noticed when he stared at him. It’s likely the reason Mr. Broussard was staring at him in the first place. Eliott would be embarrassed by it, if it weren’t for the shrewd grin that accompanied Mr. Broussard's appraisal, something that was more approving than judgemental.

But perhaps Eliott is overthinking it.

Perhaps he’s overthinking Mr. Broussard's perception just as he may be overthinking Lucas’ smiles and soft gaze. Just because he didn’t exude any outward ire towards Eliott doesn’t mean that he...

It doesn’t mean that...

(It doesn’t mean that a garden of hope needs to bloom in Eliott’s chest like this.

Yet, it does.

It does.)

“Eliott?”

He started when Madeleine touches his arm.

“Yes? Yes. Um.” He glances around the room. “If that’s the last of the dishes then you can...um.”

“Yes, we’re headed down.” She grins, patting him on the arm. “Best to return to your guests, _chéri_.”

The glint in her eye makes Eliott want to hide under the dining room table.

Tonight, it seems as though _everyone_ knows.

“I shall...do that,” he says lamely, and he scurries away from Madeleine’s teasing smile, turning towards the drawing room, before he recalls the conversation he had with Mr. Leplein about literature, and how Herman said he had not yet had the chance to read _Candide_ , and Eliott pivots on his heels, heading the opposite direction down the hallway.

He’s certain has a copy of the novel in the smaller drawing room. The _study_ , as he likes to call it, even though it’s more a reading room than anything else.

Eliott has never been one to shy away from lending things out, and he can’t imagine anything that’s better to share than a book. Besides, the copy he’s thinking of is new, purchased to sit on the shelf and be an addition to his library. He has an older copy, one that is well-thumbed and with tightly-scrawled notes inked into the margins. It’s the copy Eliott bought for himself after his father died, a delayed act of rebellion for the man who banned any and all Voltaire from the house, despite how there were far more scandalous texts in the library Eliott could easily get his hands on. Although, Eliott is fairly certain his father never set foot in the library.

Eliott bought himself a copy in Paris, on a trip to see the family lawyers, and he’d spent that entire night awake in his hotel room, reading in a daze. Then, on the journey home, he read it again. Then, he read it again, with a pot of ink at his side.

There was something about the novel that speaks to Eliott directly - its insouciance, its boldness, its humour, the main character’s journey of disillusionment. It gives him a feeling that someone has looked directly into Eliott’s mind, his heart, and has given him the words they pulled from him, but rearranged them differently so they make sense, so that Eliott can find and be found all in the turn of a page.

This is, at its most basic level, what literature has always done. It’s why Eliott adores it so.

He thinks, that even if Mr. Leplein doesn’t have the same epiphany Eliott does, that he will enjoy the humour in it, and the exciting pacing of events. He seems like a man who appreciates nothing more in the world than a good story.

Eliott stops at the entrance to the study, and as he squints into the dark room, he sees something shift there. A layer to the dim that is thrown into awareness by moonlight. For one wild moment Eliott wonders if he’s being burgled, but then his eyes catch on the slope of the figure’s shoulders, the tilt to their head as they examine the brass telescope in the corner of the room, and Eliott’s heart begins racing for another reason entirely, because he knows it’s him.

Lucas has found the telescope.

(Really, there could never have been any other fate.)

Eliott’s eyes adjust to the darkness, and he can see more of Lucas now. He can trace the slope of his neck and notice how his fingers are clenching in the air, as though they want to close the distance between warm skin and cool brass, but don’t dare to.

Now that he’s here, now that Lucas is seeing the telescope and seeing Eliott’s beating heart in his hand, and extended, the worst thing would be for Lucas not even to use it. Or to touch it.

So Eliott says, “You can touch it, if you want,” and Lucas startles like he’s a rest bird that’s been shaken from its nest.

“You scared me,” Lucas says, and Eliott’s stomach turns when he thinks of the last time those words were said to him, right before his disastrous proposal.

But he does his best to push forward. They’re not they’re, no - they’re _here_.

He spots the copy of _Candide_ on the small table between the chairs and waves it through the air like a white flag.

“He says he’s never had a chance to read it,” Eliott explains.

Lucas seems to take this in stride, and then he asks, “You wouldn’t mind? If I touched it?”

Would Eliott _mind_.

He nearly laughs, a hysterical giggle building somewhere deep in his chest, and it would be so simple to tell him then, to say what Lucas has likely already guessed: _You don’t even need to ask. It’s yours. It’s always been yours_.

Yet there’s a fragile peace building between them, something a Eliott understands is fragile and young. This is Lucas _asking_ , and so he says, without any irony, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Watching Lucas hesitantly reach out, then become more confident as his fingers meet the brass, caressing and travelling and touching so throughly and wondrously makes Eliott’s heart stutter and head swim.

He wonders what it would feel like, to be touched like that. To be touched like that by Lucas.

But watching Lucas fawn over the telescope also tugs in something fond and underneath Eliott’s ribcage. It fills him with something equally wondrous, to watch Lucas be so intrigued by something Eliott was able to give him.

He takes a step closer. “Do you like it?” He asks, at once desperate to know, to hear it, and when Lucas laughs, Eliott can’t help but smile.

“I like it,” Lucas says, and then: “I’m very fond of the stars.”

Eliott thinks of every time he saw Lucas’ head titled back to the sky, every time he saw him inhale the night air as though it keeps him alive, every time he smiled at the mention of a telescope, and he feels himself soften.

“Yes.” He says quietly. “I know.” _I know you_ , he doesn’t say.

He didn’t even realize he’d taken another step forward, and he’s closer to Lucas now than he first thought he was, close enough to see to the depths of his midnight ocean eyes.

In the reaching hand of the moonlight, he looks ethereal. Untouchably beautiful.

Yet somehow, Eliott knows him.

“Lucas,” he says, and he can hear how pained his voice is, straining with the weight of everything that he hasn’t said but is at once desperate to: _I know you, It’s always been yours, you can keep it if you like, I love you, I still love you, Do you know what you do to my heart when you smile at me?_

And, above all: _Do you think you might be beginning to know me? Do you think of me differently now?_

Lucas raises his eyes to him, and Eliott’s throat is tight, but he’s opening his mouth again, mortifying honesty dripping from his tongue like too-sweet caramel, and he’s-

“Lucas!”

Eliott leaps to attention as though he’s a boy who’s been caught daydreaming again. The Voltaire drops to the floor with a _smack_ and Eliott’s ears are ringing as he stoops to retrieve it, and he barely manages to take a step away from Lucas before Mr. Broussard is poking his head into the study. When he sees Eliott, then sees Lucas in the room with him, the shrewd smile returns.

It’s still not close to midnight, but Eliott accepts the interruption for what it is, and lets any magic that had been building in the moonlit space between him and Lucas fade to nothing.

Except-

Except there’s Mr. Broussard asking Eliott to join them at their inn, to try some of that famous scotch, and there’s Lucas, saying, “One drink, Mr. Demaury?”

And there’s magic, still.

_**For anon, who asked: have they ever talked about lucas' past- how lonely he must've been losing his parents at a young age? bc he still refers to his aunt/uncle as mr/mrs banet, like they're family but there's a distance.** _

When Eliott first met the Banet family, he didn’t know what to make of them.

They were loud, that much was true. Bold and indelicate. Simultaneously warm and welcoming but also intimidating. They were clearly close, as evident from their interactions and the way the spoke to one another. Eliott could see shades of himself and Daphné in the way the Banet sisters and Lucas would be arguing one moment, petty and childish, then fiercely defending one another in the next.

Mrs. Banet frightened Eliott the most. Her strong opinions and bouts of cluelessness likened her to his aunt initially, a comparison that made him turn in the opposite direction whenever he saw her approaching. Mr. Banet was more of an an enigma, quiet and withdrawn, but with a shrewd, intelligent gaze.

But these were only glimpses into the Banet family. Impressions that Eliott gathered from balls, when he had nothing to do but observe the guests from a distance.

Then, Lucas agrees to move in with him, and Alexia tells him, _You’re already family, darling_ , and Eliott finds himself in the middle of Beaufort’s kitchen with Mrs. Banet clinging to him and rest of the family watching on in amusement, and it hits him properly, in the midst of it all, that he is a part of this family now.

Their chaos is his chaos. Their ridiculousness and dramatics are his to bear.

The thought makes Eliott so wildly happy that he thinks he might cry all over again. He can see them together: the Banet’s, Lucas, himself, Daphné, Madeleine. One overly large, patchwork family, one that’s made as much as it is born. One that’s real and imperfect and so full of love.

So, when Eliott finds himself alone for a moment at their garden party, which Lucas keeps insisting is not a wedding even though it may as well be, and he spots Mrs. Banet walking towards the food table, he drains the rest of his wine glass, and subtly intercepts her.

“Eliott,” she says happily when she sees him, linking their arms together. “I was wondering when you were going to come to talk to me.”

Not so subtly, then.

“I don’t want to bother you,” Eliott immediately says, and it’s an old habit that makes him wince. He can practically hear Dr. Daucet’s voice in his hear.

_Why do you think your instinct is always to apologize, Eliott? What are you apologizing for?_

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Banet’s cheeks are pink and her eyes are glassy. She grins, and her smile is that of a woman much younger than her, teasing and girlish. “You are my son now, after all.”

The ease with which she says it stops him short. “Oh.”

She grips tightly onto his bicep. “That is to say that you’re a part of this family, my dear. You’re one of mine.” She inclines her head to where Eliott can see Emma, Manon, Alexia, and Lucas standing in a circle, their heads bent together as though they’re sharing a secret. “And that extends to your lovely sister as well.”

“Thank you,” Eliott says softly. Mrs. Banet pats him on the cheek, and both of their eyes are watery. “That means more than you know.”

“I think I know.” Mrs. Banet says, with a sad tilt to her mouth. “You know, when I first heard the news that my sister and her husband died, all I could think about was Lucas.”

Her gaze drifts to him as she speaks, to Lucas, who is wrestling his crown of flowers away from Alexia, returning it to his head and pouting when Emma says something that makes all of the girls laugh.

“All I could think about was that sweet boy, now left without a family. We never discussed it, she and I, where Lucas would go if anything happened to them, but I knew there was only one possibility. He needed a family. He needed a home.”

Eliott pictures him, his sweet and sensitive and blisteringly smart Lucas as a child, alone and adrift in the world, and his heart grows heavy. His ribs strain under the weight of it. “So you gave him that.”

When he turns to look at her, Mrs. Banet’s smile is melancholic. “I tried,” she says simply. “But I could only ever do so much. I was never a mother to him, nor was my husband ever his father. There’s no replacement for that.” Her fingers touch her mouth, gaze warm as she takes in her children. “But we all tried together, to become something like a family. There’s some of it I would do differently now, for all of them, but I think...I think we’ve done alright.” She rests her head against Eliott’s shoulder. “They’ve turned out wonderfully, haven’t they?”

Eliott pats the hand that still grips tightly to his bicep. “They have,” he agrees. Lucas' head turns, eyes searching in the crowd as though he can hear Eliott thinking about him, and when he sees Eliott with his aunt, his eyes widen, his mouth dropping open.

“Oh,” Mrs. Banet smirks. “He thinks I’m embarrassing him.” She waves at Lucas with her free hand. “Quickly, Eliott: laugh as though I’ve just said something horribly embarrassing about him.”

The thing is, Eliott realizes, Lucas hardly ever talks about his parents.

There was that moment at Montrose, when Eliott’s aunt was badgering Lucas incessantly about his background, and Lucas had mentioned that his parents were poets, and that they had little money. But aside from that, Eliott knows nothing about them.

He understands it, though. Eliott doesn’t speak about his father unless he absolutely has to. It aches to do so, like prodding at an old scar, and Eliott doesn’t want to ask Lucas to tell him anything that he wouldn’t be willing to share.

That doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.

He finds himself in the library one afternoon, carefully combing through the Demaury collection of poetry, searching for any volume with the name _Lallemant_ on the spine. His search yields nothing, aside from distracting Eliott from what was supposed to be an afternoon of finally responding to letters that he’s been meaning to respond to for weeks, and it does nothing to satiate his curiosity.

Still, he makes the decision to wait. He will only ask about Lucas’ family if Lucas gives him an opening to do so. Eliott is patient, a quality nurtured in him by his mother, and with Lucas, he’s even more so. There’s no end to how long he’s willing to wait for him. For anything.

But as it happens, Eliott doesn’t even need to ask.

There’s one night in October when it storms: pounding rain and echoing claps of thunder. Forks of lightning that crack the sky.

They spend the evening in the drawing room, Lucas, Eliott and Daphné, gathered around the fireplace with pots of tea and plates of food. They play cards and Daphné wins every hand. Eliott tells ghost stories until Lucas tells him to stop because he’s bored, even though Eliott has a suspicion it’s because he’s scared.

Eventually, Daphné falls asleep, curled up under a wool blanket on the settee, her open book tumbling from her hands down to the floor.

Eliott folds the corner of a page down to save her place, then wraps another blanket around his shoulders, sitting on the floor with his back braced against the the corner of the settee.

Lucas eyes him from his armchair. “Is there room in there for me?”

In response, Eliott holds the blanket open to him.

Lucas sits between Eliott’s legs, leaning back against his chest and letting out a contended sigh when Eliott folds his arms around him, the blanket covering them both.

A cold nose presses into Eliott’s neck and he gasps.

Lucas giggles into his skin.

“You’re annoying,” Eliott grumbles, but he’s smiling, and Lucas must be able to tell without even looking at him because his hand comes out the blanket, flailing around Eliott’s face until it finds his cheek, then poking him.

“You love me,” Lucas says, sounding nothing short of smug, and Eliott bites at the tip of his finger.

But he can’t help saying it, after a moment, ducking his head to kiss Lucas’ cheek, to whisper in his ear just as another fork of lightning casts long shadows across the drawing room floor, “I love you.”

Lucas turns his head to meet him in a kiss, and Eliott can feel it everywhere when he shivers.

“I love you too,” Lucas murmurs when they part. He tucks his face back into Eliott’s neck, and Eliott shifts his hold on him, lifting one arm so he can stroke his fingers through Lucas’ hair.

Lucas lets out a happy noise, and Eliott smiles, pressing his lips to his forehead.

It’s so peaceful there, in the places where their bodies overlap, underneath their warm blanket, that it feels as though they’ve created a world entirely separate from the one they inhabit. The storm may rage and roar, but there, in the Demaury drawing room, exists only warmth and comfort.

Eliott thinks he could fall asleep like this, with Lucas in his arms and Daphné’s soft snores above them, warmed by the crackling fire.

It would be hell for his back, but it would be worth it.

“This is what it is,” Lucas says softly, and his voice almost too quiet to be heard over the rain against the windows, “to speak of longing between souls. We must have fallen from the same star, my dear, for I loved you before I ever knew you.”

Eliott slowly smooths his hand over Lucas’ hair. “That’s beautiful.” His thumb strokes down the shell of Lucas’ ear. “Where is it from?”

“My mother wrote it.”

Eliott lets out a long breath, resting his chin on the top of Lucas’ head. His eyes are fixed on the tall windows across from them, the world beyond them dark and cavernous, lit only by the occasional stark flash of lightning.

“There used to be manuscripts everywhere in the house,” Lucas says eventually. “From both of them. They would read them aloud constantly, and pore over a single line for hours. It’s why I never liked poetry, because it reminded me too much of them. That one in particular...I heard my mother say it so many times, I could never forget it. But I,” Lucas hands fist in Eliott’s shirt, “I don’t think I really understood it until now.”

Eliott's free hand finds Lucas’ under the blanket. He lifts them together, kissing the inside of Lucas’ wrist, nuzzling into his palm.

He closes his eyes, trying to imprint the words onto his heart.

_This is what it is, to speak of longing between souls._

“They would have loved you,” Lucas continues, and there’s a subtle fondness to his voice that makes Eliott smile against the delicate bones of his hand. “I’m sure you could have spent hours talking to them about poetry, or about art.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I would have had to fight to get any of your attention.”

Eliott shakes his head. “Never,” he says softly.

Lucas tugs on Eliott’s hand, lowering them back beneath the folds of the blanket to rest on his stomach.

“We didn’t have a lot of money, but I didn’t realize that, at the time. They never acted like it. I don’t remember them ever fighting, or ever speaking about money around me. They were just...happy, I think. They were always happy.”

Lucas falls silent, and Eliott realizes that he’s crying, small tremors rippling through his back that Eliott can feel in his sternum. Immediately, Eliott wants to comfort him. He wants to wipe his tears and tell him everything will be alright, but in this moment, with Lucas picking at the edges of the oldest scar he has, Eliott doesn’t think its his place.

Eliott knows grief, yes, but he doesn’t know grief like this. So he stays silent, pressing his lips to the crown of Lucas’ head.

_I’m so sorry, Lucas._ A clap of thunder echoes in the distance. The rain continues to beat against the windows. _It’s unfair, and that’s all we can say about it. It’s so fucking unfair._

Eliott doesn’t know how long they stay that way for, but it doesn’t matter. He counts time by how many passes his hand has made down Lucas’ spine, by how many shudders he can feel under his palm, by how many times Lucas’ fists unclench from his shirt, only to grip back onto it.

Eventually, Lucas shifts against him, turning his head away from Eliott’s neck, and his voice is a little more solid to say, “I was lucky, you know. There are so many others like me who lost their parents and had to be taken to an orphanage, or to homes with cruel people. The Banet’s, they...they’ve done so much for me. They’ve given me a family, and a home, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t-” He exhales softly. “There’s something missing in me, and it won’t ever be replaced.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Eliott tells him gently.

“I know,” Lucas says, and it sounds a little sad, but it also sounds like something he’s thought about before. Something he carries with him.

When the silence between them stretches out into minutes, Eliott tentatively says, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Lucas leans away from Eliott’s chest, sitting up and turning on the spot so he can face him. The blanket drops from his shoulders, pooling around his waist.

His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his face is red, but he’s smiling softly as he cups Eliott’s cheeks in his hands, pressing their foreheads together and letting a sigh unfurl between them.

“It’s so easy for me to tell you things,” Lucas says. “Well, not easy necessarily, but it - it feels right.” He kisses Eliott, short and sweet, and it feels like _thank you_. It feels like _you’re the safest place I know_. 

“It’s the same for me,” Eliott whispers. “I hope you know that.”

Lucas’ smile widens. “I do.”

They fire has died to embers, and with it, the warmth in the room begins to be taken over by the damp cold from the storm, so they make the decision to leave, having to try to wake Daphné a few times before bidding her goodnight, then making their way back to their own room, holding hands while Lucas wears the blanket like a cape.

It’s only when Eliott is sitting on the end of their bed, watching Lucas blow out the final candle on the mantlepiece, that he says, hesitantly, “I wish I could read her work.”

It’s too dark for Eliott to interpret the glance Lucas sends him, and he’s worried he’s overstepped, until Lucas steps towards him and says lightly, “You probably could. My father was only published in journals, but she had a book printed, years ago. I’ve never been able to find a copy, but I’m sure you could, with your,” he pokes Eliott in the forehead, “connections.”

“Would you mind?” Eliott asks, grasping Lucas’ finger and tugging on his hand, placing his palm flat over Eliott’s heart. “If I read it? If you would rather I didn’t, I’d understand.”

“No.” Lucas says softly. “I wouldn’t mind.” His thumb strokes across Eliott’s skin. “But thank you for asking.”

“Of course.”

“Her name was Hélène,” Lucas says. “Hélène Lallemant. But the book was published under the pen name Cezanne Olivier.”

The name gives Eliott pause. It tugs at something in his mind, a thin forest green spine and faded gold lettering, but he can’t be sure, not entirely, so he just nods, and says, “I’ll look for it.”

“Alright.” Lucas drops his hand from Eliott’s chest, kneeing up onto the bed next to him, then crawling under the covers, burrowing himself into the pillows.

“Come on.” His voice is muffled. “I’m cold and exhausted, and I’d like you to hold me, please.”

Without hesitation, Eliott goes.

His suspicion is confirmed the next day, when he ventures back into the library and finds that same thin volume. The lettering is faded, but not too faded so as not to be discerned, and Eliott sets it down carefully on the desk in the library, making a plan to return to it after he finishes his meeting with Maurice to survey any damages to the grounds from the storm.

But, when he returns, soaked from the light rain that continues to fall, covered in mud from walking the tree line, the book isn’t where he left it.

He checks the bookcases, on the chance that Madeleine may have re-shelved it, but cannot find it there. He checks the other tables, the drawing room, the study, and grows increasingly worried that he may have lost it somewhere, until he walks past the open door to the bedroom, and he sees Lucas in there, curled up on the window seat with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and an open book in his hand, one with a deep green cover and faint gold lettering.

Eliott watches him for a moment, the way his eyes slowly travel over each line, the way his fingers caress each page before turning it, before he smiles, then quietly turns back down the hallway.

_**For anon, who asked how Eliott and Lucas' first night in the same room went: bc you’d mentioned a misunderstanding ending up with them sleeping in the hallway together. So how does it go after that? And I don’t mean it in a sexual way either, just like-do they cuddle, do they get awkward? Is it the best sleep of their lives? How do they feel?** _

The morning after the night in the hallway, Lucas sits across from Eliott at the breakfast table, looks him in the eye and says, “So I’ll move my things into your room, then?”

Eliott nearly chokes on his bite of marmalade toast but he manages to nod, hiding his blush in his cup of tea while avoiding the amused gaze of Daphné.

“How _very_ scandalous of you two.” She says, dropping her chin into her palm. She sounds nothing less than delighted.

Lucas gives her a smug smile, kicking his foot out so he can nudge it against Eliott’s leg. “Oh, just you wait.”

Eliott chokes on his tea.

Yet for all of Lucas’ bravado, he’s quiet when Eliott helps him move his trunks into his room, quiet still when Eliott helps him unpack, keeping some of his books inside their room and moving others into the study.

Eliott thinks Lucas may be feeling the same way Eliott is: as nervous as he his excited. Despite having the realization that they didn’t want to sleep apart, the very real step to changing that, to sleeping _together_ , has been made no less daunting.

Eliott understands it, so he doesn’t push him. When they go up to bed that night, he hesitates in the doorway while Lucas crosses to the wardrobe, already unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“Do you...” Eliott begins softly, his hand clenching against the doorknob when Lucas crosses in front of the fire, the silhouette of his body outlined by its light. “Would you, um - I can wait outside, while you change.”

Lucas pauses, and Eliott can see how his shoulders slump down. He can hear the sigh he lets out.

“I’m sorry,” Lucas says as he turns to face him. He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning down at the floor. “I know I’ve been acting...odd today.”

Eliott smiles. “No more than usual.” He steps into the room, closing the door and pressing his back into it, hands flat against the wood. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I’m just nervous,” Lucas blurts out. He bites down on the edge of his thumbnail, making a frustrated noise. “I want to be here,” he says, gesturing at the room, the bed. “Here, with you. But I - I’ve never had anything like this before. I’ve never been this close with anyone.”

Eliott nods. His eyes dart to the bed of their own accord, and he feels himself flush. “I understand. It’s very...official, isn’t it?”

Lucas laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose.”

“If you want to wait, we can-”

“No.” The word is gentle, yet firm, and when Eliott meets Lucas’ gaze again, he can see the affection there, and something else that makes his skin burn pleasantly. “No,” Lucas repeats, a little more softly. He closes the distance between them, striding forward until the tips of his socked feet meet Eliott’s boots. He grasps Eliott’s hands in his own, folding them together over his chest.

“I only want you to be comfortable,” Eliott whispers, and Lucas shakes his head, their noses brushing together with the motion.

“I only want _you_ to be comfortable,” Lucas says seriously, and they’re only able to hold their stoic expressions for a moment, before their eyes begin to curve, before their smiles begin to widen, before they start giggling uncontrollably.

“This is exactly what our problem yesterday was,” Lucas whispers around another bubbly laugh. “Why are we like this?”

Eliott shrugs, still laughing, still nervous, still hopelessly in love. “It’s new for both of us, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Lucas says softly. He kisses Eliott’s knuckles, then leans his chin onto their joined hands, staring up at Eliott with starlit eyes. “Why don’t we just...go to sleep? Hm?” He blinks slowly, the firelight casting shadows from his lashes across his cheeks. “No expectations. No pressure. Just us.”

Eliott feels himself unwinding like a ribbon under Lucas’ warm gaze, the soft touch of his skin. “Just us,” he agrees. He kisses Lucas’ forehead. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs into his temple.

They change, sneaking shy glances at each other, both of them laughing when Lucas lets out a low whistle at a brief glimpse of Eliott’s backside.

When they lie down on the bed, they begin at opposite sides, burrowed under the warm blankets and staring at each other, laughing quietly while the fire burns out, while the moon continues to rise.

Eliott isn’t sure who reaches out first, but it really doesn’t matter, because there’s one moment where they’re apart, opposite sides of an ocean, and then there’s another where they’re together, limbs sliding across the mattress, warm skin meeting warm skin, relieved breaths being exhaled against soft lips.

Eliott cups Lucas’ face in his hands. He strokes the skin of his neck, trails his fingers down his arms, pulls him closer with an arm around his back. Touching him is blissful. Kissing him is easier than breathing.

Lucas fists one hand in Eliott’s shirt, another in his hair, and he sighs into his mouth. When he says _My_ _love_ , it tastes like summertime on Eliott’s tongue.

“My star,” Eliott murmurs into Lucas’ ear, gently kissing the tip of it, and Lucas laughs, pushing Eliott away with a flat palm to his chest.

Lucas rolls onto his other side, and when Eliott doesn’t immediately follow him, he reaches back, hand patting against the sheets until he finds Eliott’s forearm, and the he tugs him close, wrapping his arm around his body. He sighs happily when Eliott curves up behind him, pressing a kiss behind his ear and whispering, _Goodnight Lucas_.

Eliott wakes hours later, blinking into the darkness. Something warm and heavy rests against his chest. Soft hair tickes against his chin. His arm is wrapped around a narrow back that expands with gentle breaths. Eliott blinks again, and all he remembers is smiling at nothing at all, feeling utterly, perfectly happy, before he closes his eyes, and tumbles back into dreams of stars and oceans.

He wakes again, and there’s light now, pouring in from the uncovered windows. It bends around Lucas’ body, outlining the curve of his hip, his shoulder, filtering through the messy strands of his hair.

They’re facing each other, curved closely together but not touching, except for the space between them where their hands overlap.

For a moment, Eliott doesn’t do anything but watch him, taking in the smooth planes of his face, the gentle parting of his lips. Eliott wonders what he might be dreaming about. He wonders, selfishly, if he’s in it.

He doesn’t move until Lucus’ nose twitches. Then his lips smack together, his feet sliding between the sheets, and Eliott grins, pulling his hands away so he can shift closer, one arm wrapping around Lucas’ waist as he presses his lips to the highest point of his cheekbone, lingering there.

“Eliott?” Lucas murmurs, tilting his head into the touch, causing Eliott’s next kiss to land on the bridge of his nose.

“Good morning,” Eliott says, and he follows Lucas when he rolls onto his back, propping himself up on his forearms.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Lucas stretches his arms above his head, yawning like a cat, then he leaves them there, smiling at Eliott with bleary eyes.

Eliott leans his weight onto one arm so he can smooth Lucas’ hair back from his forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

Lucas bites down his lip, nodding. “Mhm. I think it-” he giggles, his hands lowering to Eliott’s shoulders. “I think it may have been the best sleep I’ve ever had.”

Eliott raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Really. In fact,” Lucas uses his hold on Eliott to pull him down, closer, all I want to do right now is go back to sleep.”

“We can do that,” Eliott says without missing a beat, and Lucas laughs as he collapses on top of him, their limbs tangling together under the sun-warmed sheets, their heads resting on the same pillow, eyes fixed on each other until they doze off again.

It comes as no surprise to anyone that they miss breakfast that morning.

_**For anon, who asked if Eliott and Lucas grow old together in this universe, and if it still feels the same between them, after many, many years.** _

The years do pass, and Lucas and Eliott spend them together.

They travel. They venture to Spain and to Italy, to Scotland and to Switzerland, to Germany and to Belgium. They sail on the sea and crane their heads back to see mountains. And they always return with incredible stories.

They read. Often together, and often apart. They’ll find one another on the window seat in their room, so absorbed in a book they already know that they’re going to miss dinner. They curl onto the sofa together, soft breaths pressed to warm skin, gentle fingers turning delicate pages. Lucas will read aloud, his voice gentle and low, and Eliott will drift off to sleep on his chest, lulled by the dreamy cadence of Lucas’ voice and slow beat of his heart under Eliott’s ear.

They dance. Usually when they’re alone, when they can drift close together and let their form slip so they can sneak in a kiss or two. They never dance together at balls, unless it’s a very small one hosted by their friends. When they can’t dance together, they’ll dance next to each other, excitedly anticipating the moment in the dance when they have to turn, heels smoothing across scuffed wood, and for a moment they’ll face each other, eyes teasing and hearts soaring. And then the dance will change again, and they’ll turn away from each other, but their hearts remain high, so bright they shame the chandeliers.

They argue. Not often, but when they do, it hurts. They’re defensive, the both of them. They’re prone to stubbornness. They’re too noble in their desire to take care of everyone but themselves. They’re too passionate. They yell, they slam doors, and they stomp away in fury before they can fix it. Then, when they’re alone, the fiery orange of anger and the bitter yellow of frustration cool, melt to pale lavender and blue, and they go searching throughout the house, poking heads into empty rooms and calling out until they find each other. Then they say, _I’m sorry_. They say, _Let me try again_. _I’ll listen to you, and I won’t jump to conclusions_. They say, _Thank you for being patient with me_. They say, _I love you_.

They laugh. All the time. They laugh at dinner with Daphné, snorting into napkins and inhaling wine by accident. They laugh in bed, eyes meeting in the dark and shoulders shaking with quiet giggles. They laugh with their friends until they cry, gasping for breath and clutching at each other, overwhelmed and unbelievably happy. They laugh at nothing at all, unable to tell who started it but knowing that they’re both caught now, laughing uncontrollably in the garden while Daphné, Alexia, Emma, and Manon look on in confusion, shaking their heads when they burst into laughter again.

They stargaze. They take to the balcony with the telescope, or the garden with a blanket, and they tilt their heads back and sigh. Lucas writes in his notebook and Eliott sketches, reads, dozes, composes a poem in his mind, something about a star that lit a darkened sky. A star that burned bright blue. A star that the Earth loved so much it begged it to come down, to sink its toes into the grass and feel the wind on its cheeks. Daphné comes with them once or twice, but it’s her daughter who loves it the most, always sneaking out after bedtime to find where her uncles have gone that night. She learns the constellations from Lucas, and the poetry from Eliott. By the time she’s 13, she can name a constellation on sight and recall the story of its name.

They live. Sometimes apart when necessary, but always together when it matters. They live a new life every night under the blanket of stars, building a new history between shared smiles and eyes that are still so full of wonder, even decades later.

Eliott tells him one night, _You look the same as you did, you know. When I first saw you_.

Lucas laughs, low and rough, and the wrinkles around his eyes crease. _No, I don’t_. He smooths the hair back from Eliott’s forehead, now streaked with starlight and silver. _You just look at me the same_.

Eliott smiles at that, and he finds Lucas’ hand, kisses his palm. _My star_ , he says softly.

Lucas softens, curls his fingers around Eliott’s cheek. _My love_.

And the ever-constant stars look on.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading 🌷
> 
> on tumblr [@lepetitepeach](https://lepetitepeach.tumblr.com) if you want to talk meaningful gazes and fleeting hand touches!
> 
> be good to each other 💛


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